Still-Born Shout
by sjm2119
Summary: Sif Still-Born is a child of legend... Literally. The story of her birth has become something of a horror story in Nord culture, meant to terrify children and warn suspicious souls away from the Daedra. But when she chooses to return to Skyrim, her father's homeland, she will get much more than she bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

-Prologue-

_"Papa, tell me again."_

_The Dunmer sighed with exasperation at his son's incessant pleas. Those Nord legends were getting more and more far-fetched. Their silly superstitions had even captured the interest of his young son._

_Well, if the boy will let me work, it may be worth it to just tell him the damn story, he thought to himself. He looked to his young son and allowed himself a smile; the boy's face lit up with excitement as he settled at his father's feet. The Dunmer did his best to recall the story's plot._

_Those damn Nords and their superstitious nonsense, he thought._

_"Not long ago," he began, remembering the words as he went. It was his son's favorite story. He should've known it by heart. "A child was born of two northern farmers. The woman was called Isa Green-Field and her husband was Hodarr Green-Field."_

_His son's eyes lit up, and warmth washed over his heart._

_"When the child was born, they saw that it was a daughter, so they called her Sif, like the golden maiden of legends. But the child was not golden, and she was not breathing; her hair was black as midnight and her skin was as pale as moonstone. The farmers mourned their stillborn child and buried her deep underground. Isa Green-Field became Isa Cold-Womb."_

_Nord names were awfully straightforward, he thought. He sighed to himself and continued._

_"The next morning, Isa Cold-Womb was awoken by a terrible wail. She came outside to find her stillborn child, alive, in a bed of straw. The child's grave-mound was undisturbed, yet she was risen from it."_

_His son's eyes were wide with anxiousness._

_"The farmers' neighbors feared that Isa Cold-Womb and her husband had been calling upon the Daedra to resurrect their stillborn daughter. They chased the farmers and their pale child from their farm."_

_"Where did they go, Papa?" this son interrupted, suddenly. The Dunmer cleared his throat and continued._

_"They went over mountains and crossed rivers, and it is said that their child's sudden silence sent a chill through the mountains that kept even the most wicked creatures at bay." That line almost made him shiver. "They fled Skyrim into Cyrodiil, Isa Cold-Womb's homeland. The farmers and their child were never seen again, but the chill of Sif Still-Born remains-"_

_"-beneath the Throat of the World." The Dunmer's son had finished the story himself. Thank the Divines, thought the Dunmer, as his son thanked him and began to scramble away._

_I have work to do, the Dunmer thought. I cannot be worried about these silly tales. His wife, Methala, would keep their son entertained now that he had been told his stupid story._

_Just when he was turning back to his ledger, he heard his son's voice once more._

_"Papa?"_

_He sighed. What could the boy possibly want? "Yes, Tavyn?"_

_"Do you think Sif Still-Born is real?" Tavyn asked, curiosity evident in his voice. He gets that from his mother, the Dunmer grudgingly thought to himself. He would have to talk to Methala about this ridiculous "Still-Born" tale._

_"It's only a story, son."_

_"Yes, Papa."_

-Years Later-

Ulfric sat, bound and gagged, wondering how he could've allowed himself to get into such a position. His eyes wandered to the cart ahead of them; full of his loyal soldiers, his Stormcloaks. They were going to the block, because of him. He was going to the block. By Talos, it was all going to end, today.

Had he fought so hard, only to have his head lopped off by the very thing he had grown to hate so passionately?

He looked to his left; there was Ralof, one of his most loyal soldiers. Ulfric was suddenly of a mind to give the boy a promotion. He almost chuckled to himself. It's a little late for that, isn't it? He thought to himself.

Next to Ralof sat another Nord, in ragged robes. His eyes kept darting back and forth, looking for a way out. He had the edginess of a thief that was finally caught. Ulfric almost felt a shred of pity for the Nord, but it was suddenly erased. The thought of the headsman's block threw a black shroud over everything else.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake," Ralof said, suddenly. Ulfric looked over to see that their fellow cart-mate had finally stirred from unconsciousness. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

So he was a thief. Ulfric had guessed right. Another small victory.

The woman that Ralof was addressing looked lazily at the thief, trying to comprehend the situation around her. It gave Ulfric a moment to observe her features.

Her skin was alabaster smooth, with the dark hair and thin cheekbones of an Imperial noblewoman, but her lips were drawn, as a Nord's would be. Her eyes were dark and appeared heavily shadowed, while the irises were as pale as her skin. Her hair was dark, as Ulfric noted before, but after looking a bit more closely he realized that it was as black as Oblivion itself. There was something almost ghostly about her. Ulfric could clearly see the Imperial features, but there was an aura of fierceness about her that almost screamed Nord.

There was a vertical scar underneath her eye, and another small scar above her lip. By the Nine, what a strange looking woman she is, Ulfric thought.

He looked away when she looked up.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief spat. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell. You there," he nodded at the woman. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Ulfric didn't hear the woman respond.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," Ralof responded. He had come to terms with his fate. A courageous boy, Ulfric thought. No, a courageous _man_.

"Shut up back there!" the Imperial soldier shouted from up front. All were silent for a moment.

"And what's wrong with him, huh?" Ulfric recognized the horse thief's voice, and guessed that he had pointed in his direction.

"Watch your tongue!" Ralof snapped, as loyal as ever. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king!"

Ulfric made a point to look away. He didn't want to see Ralof's face, or the fire in his eyes. He felt bad enough, leading his own men to their demise.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion," the thief said, worry building in his voice. "But if they've captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

There was silence for a moment.

"I don't know where we're going," Ralof said, quietly. "But Sovngarde awaits."

His grave honesty was met by denial from the thief. "No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening."

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" Ralof asked, trying to sway the subject.

"Why do you care?" the thief snapped. Ulfric could feel the tension mounting once more. He suddenly wondered what the captive woman was making of all this.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," Ralof replied, once again somber. Perhaps he isn't as ready as I thought he was, Ulfric thought to himself. Then again, death wasn't the easiest of things to accept.

"Rorikstead. I'm… I'm from Rorikstead."

Again, silence. Ulfric was thankful for it. He saw the shadow of a wall approaching, and he looked up.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" and Imperial soldier shouted forth.

"Good! Let's get this over with," came the reply. Ulfric felt a rattled sigh escape from his lungs; his heart was starting to accelerate, but not with fear. With anger. By the Nine, if only his hands weren't bound… Those Imperials would have a time pulling him away from Tullius.

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me!"

Ulfric was almost sure that the horse thief had never prayed to any of the Divines in his life. Death brought desperation, Ulfric reasoned in his head. The thief doesn't want to die.

Ulfric was sure that none of them really wanted to die, but they could at least face the inevitable with honor. The thief may have been a Nord, but he didn't possess the traits of Ulfric's people. Being a Nord was synonymous with being proud, being honorable, and facing even the most grueling challenges with courage.

"Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor," Ralof suddenly spoke up again. Ulfric's eyes were already fixed upon the General. He imagined the arc of an axe, and Tullius's head rolling, instead of his own. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

As their carriage crawled through the village, Ulfric heard Ralof speak up once again. "This is Helgen," he said. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making the mead with the juniper berries mixed in."

There was a brief moment of silence before Ralof continued to reminisce.

"Funny, when I was a boy," he said, hate evident behind every word. "Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Ulfric remembered a time like that. It was an impossibly distant memory, but it was there. Almost out of reach. He looked up and saw red flags, flying the Imperial sigil. He knew, in his mind and his heart, that those flags would look a lot better if they were flying the Great Bear of Eastmarch. He made a note to himself that if he got out of this alive, Falkreath hold would be his for the taking.

He was stirred from his thoughts when the carriage rattled to a stop. The thief spoke again, fear more than obvious in his voice. "Why are we stopping?"

Ulfric looked over as Ralof and the woman looked up. "Why do you think?" Ralof looked at the thief. "End of the line." He looked at the woman with a bitter smile on his face. "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us." Ulfric stood up slowly, fearing for a moment that he might be thrown off balance. He hopped down the carriage ladder and felt reassured when his feet hit solid ground.

"No, wait! We're not rebels!" Ulfric heard the thief protest.

"Face your death with some courage, thief," Ralof sighed, voicing the annoyance that all of them surely felt at his cowardice.

"You've got to tell them we weren't with you!" he persisted. "This is a mistake!" Ulfric heard the thief hop down behind him.

A female Imperial captain stepped forward, clad in full armor. "Step toward the block as we call your name, one at a time!" she growled, in a commanding voice. Ulfric had a sudden desire to brandish his favorite axe and mount her head on a spike outside of Windhelm.

"Empire loves their damned lists," Ralof scowled, bringing forth a little bit of lightness. Ulfric was thankful that he was there to lend his humor.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." Ulfric cursed to himself. He should've known he would've been first. He knew Tullius was anxious to have his head on the block. If Ulfric was lucky, Tullius might've lopped it off himself. He walked forward and heard Ralof behind him. "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

As Ulfric was walking to meet his bound companions, he heard Ralof's name called. He slowed his pace a bit, to at least have the fellow Nord's company for a few moments before his untimely death. Both he and Ralof turned when they heard the thief's name being called.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

Ulfric almost wished he could've warned the thief, but he wouldn't have listened to reason.

"No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" Lokir shouted, and began an awkward sprint towards the gate. The Imperial woman called after him, but he didn't listen.

"Archers!" she shouted, and Lokir of Rorikstead was dead. She turned back to the woman, standing alone by the carriage. Ulfric and Ralof continued their walk to the block.

"Wait, you there, step forward" Ulfric faintly heard the male Imperial say. He assumed that the woman was being spoken to. "Who… Are you?"

Ulfric strained his ears to hear the woman's response, but her reply was too quiet to discern from the surrounding noise.

"You're a long way from Cyrodiil, aren't you?" Ulfric heard the male soldier reply. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

"Forget the list, she goes to the block," the captain replied. Ulfric growled to himself. He _would_ have that Imperial's head.

"By your orders," Ulfric heard the male soldier's reply. "I'm sorry that you won't be dying in your homeland." He was addressing the woman again. Ulfric didn't dare to look. He heard the woman's reply, this time.

"Skyrim is my home." Her voice was calm, content. An eerie silence followed it, as if the Imperial had nothing to say. How strange, Ulfric thought to himself. Even her voice unsettled him a bit. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, following the female captain. He was brought face to face with Tullius, and it took everything in him not to lunge forward and tear Tullius's head from his shoulders.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," Tullius began, in that distinctly Imperial accent that Ulfric had grown to hate. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Ulfric let out a few muffled protests. That was not his intention. He challenged Torygg in the old Nord way, and the man lost. "You started this war, and plunged Skyrim into chaos! But now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore peace!"

There was a loud, metallic roar, more disturbing than that woman's voice. It echoed off the buildings and resonated everywhere, as if it were alive. The roar was nothing like Ulfric had ever heard before. Could it have been a bear, or a troll? No. A Sabre cat? Not even close. He was sure that nothing in Skyrim could've sounded like that.

"What was that?" the female captain asked Tullius. Ulfric was glad for the roar; it silenced the General's pointless speech. Tullius looked puzzled for a moment, but shook his head and dismissed whatever thought was troubling him.

"It's nothing," he said, stepping aside. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," that damnable captain replied, in a pious voice. Ulfric vowed, for a third time, to have her head on a spike. She turned to a priestess in yellow robes. "Give them their last rights."

"As we commend your souls to Atherius, blessings of the eight Divines-"

Not Eight! Ulfric thought, angrily. Blessings of the _Nine_! There are _Nine_ Divines, you bastards!

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" one of Ulfric's fearless soldiers shouted, stomping up to the block.

"As you wish," the priestess lazily replied.

"Come on! I haven't got all morning!" the soldier growled. Ulfric watched with horror as the captain put her foot in the middle of the soldier's back and pushed him down, to face his death. The headsman raised his axe, and Ulfric's eyes locked on it. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" Ulfric's eyes followed the blade of the axe as it swung downward and severed the head of his former soldier. There was an uproar, condemning both the Imperials and Ulfric's Stormcloaks.

"As fearless in death, as he was in life," Ralof said gravely, bringing reason once more into Ulfric's thoughts. He looked over at Ralof and nodded, once again thanking Talos that there was something to be learned from this.

"Next, the half-blood in the rags!" the captain shouted. Ulfric turned to see the woman look up, with malice in her pale eyes. He should've known! The woman was half-Imperial, half-Nord. That's why her features were so strange.

The sky was shattered by another roar, but louder and more menacing. It sent involuntary shivers down Ulfric's spine. He heard murmurs from the Imperials around him, but his ears were ringing too loudly to discern any specific words.

"I said, next prisoner," the captain spat, not to be disobeyed. Ulfric watched as the captain put her foot in the middle of the woman's back and shoved her downward. The headsman raised his axe, and Ulfric decided to step forward. He was not going to allow any more innocents die for his sake, especially innocents that'd been caught in the crossfire.

A shadow passed overheard, met with General Tullius's sudden cry. "What in Oblivion is _that_?!"

"Sentries, what do you see?" the captain said, fear in her voice. Ulfric looked up, as what could only be a dragon, black as night, landed on the top of the Imperial tower.

"It's in the town!" one woman cried. "_Dragon_!"

The dragon Shouted, louder than Ulfric had ever heard before. The ground beneath him shook as black clouds gathered in the sky and swirled overhead. There was the sudden heat of fire whooshing overhead as Ulfric dropped to the ground and rolled on his side. He felt the bindings on his wrists being cut, and looked up to see a fellow Nord smiling down at him. He took the Nord's outstretched hand and was hauled to his feet.

"This way, Jarl Ulfric!" the Nord called, racing towards a stone tower to the right. Ulfric followed him, stumbling along, but quickly regained his footing. As he ran, he flexed his fingers and tore the rag from his face.

They only gagged him because they knew of his Voice.

Ulfric and the Nord ducked into the tower.

"What is your name, soldier?" Ulfric asked, as soon as the noise from outside died down and he could think properly. The Nord looked bewildered before straightening up and gathering the courage to answer Ulfric's question. Ulfric saw that the soldier was just a boy, not yet out of his teen years.

"Dorvur, sir," he saluted Ulfric with a fist over his heart. Ulfric responded with the same gesture.

"Dorvur, you have saved my life. For that, I am in your debt," Ulfric scanned their surroundings as two more Stormcloak soldiers joined them. "Before any debts can be repaid, we must find a way out of here." He looked at each and every face, making sure that he connected with them. "Alive."

Ulfric turned when he heard the door open again. Ralof stormed in, followed by the half-blood woman. Ulfric contained his joy behind a stern face.

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof said, a smile lighting up his face. "Am I glad to see you! What are your orders, sir?"

Ulfric looked at every face, and he could read fear in each one, plain as day.

"Escape, with your lives," his eyes stopped on the woman's. They were pale and empty. "Talos be with you all."

Ulfric wasn't sure how they got out of Helgen alive, but the following day, he was almost to Windhelm. He and Galmar would have a bit of planning to do when he got back.


	2. Chapter 2

She had made it to Riverwood.

By the gods, she was almost burnt to a crisp in the process, but she had made it to Riverwood, and on to Whiterun, in one piece. If it weren't for Ralof's directions and Jarl Balgruuf's hospitality, she would've been in even more trouble.

When she first met the Jarl of Whiterun hold, she could see the curiosity behind his gaze, just as she had seen it at Helgen, behind the face of that Imperial name-calling soldier, and in the eyes of Jarl Ulfric.

Since she left the safety of Gerdur's house, she had been doing all she could to pick up information about the Civil War in Skyrim. She listened to citizens' conversations, eavesdropped near the doors of the guard houses, and even pocketed a few pamphlets at that Breton's shop in Whiterun.

Oh well, she thought. He was a son-of-a-bitch, anyway, and it won't hurt his business any if I just take a few things. Not only did she end up with a few informative pamphlets, she managed to snatch a steel sword and a new set of leathers. The past few years on the streets of Cyrodiil had left her with exceptional, erm, _acquiring_ skills. That's it. She could _acquire_ things extremely well.

The pamphlets made for good reading as she climbed the mountain to reach Bleak Falls Barrow. Apparently, that Jarl Ulfric had murdered the High King of Skyrim using an ancient power known only as the Voice. He and his Stormcloak rebellion declared war on the Empire, to fight for Skyrim's independence.

So they were rebels, she thought. She heard a sound from far off and folded the pamphlets, sticking them in her shoulder bag and unsheathing her sword from its scabbard at her side. As she prowled along the snow-covered path she could see the glow of a fire through the trees. She heard mumbling and figured it would be best if she remained unseen.

When they discovered her, she killed mercilessly, without a second thought. There wasn't much that went through her mind as she fought through Bleak Falls Temple. When she discovered the dark elf Arvel, she slit his throat before she cut him down. His pockets were full of gold, to her liking, and the claw was there. She was glad to think of the reward she would receive from those traders in Riverwood upon the claw's return.

As she cut down the draugr lord in the Bleak Falls Sanctum, she thought of Cyrodiil. She thought of the lush, warm climate. She thought of the days on her Aunt Lydda's farm, chopping wood and tilling the soil. She thought of milling the grains and dunking her sieve in the cool water of the stream. Her Aunt was obsessed with gold.

Perhaps that's why she was so quick to sell me off, the woman thought, as she met the slashes of her undead opponent. When a Khajiit caravan had passed through and offered Lydda gold for her young female companion. Lydda accepted, glad to have the burden of the girl taken off her shoulders.

The girl thought she was going to become a bed-slave. The girl was afraid that she would have to lay with those dirty, thieving cats.

But the girl was wrong.

The Khajiit used her as a serving-girl, at first, but as the cat-folk began to warm up to her, they taught her the arts of Speechcraft and Sneaking. They taught her how to search pockets in a busy crowd, and how to get the best of a man thrice her size, with only a blunt dagger.

When the girl was in the shadow of womanhood, the Khajiit tribe was murdered. Just like her parents had been murdered. Just like Aunt Lydda, as she would later discover, had been murdered. Her suspicious nature had her believing that someone was trying to chase her out of Cyrodiil.

The girl, who had become a young woman, spent the next few years attempting to learn more about her parentage. She knew only what her terrible aunt had told her; her mother had travelled to Skyrim and married a Nord, and the pair of them had returned to Cyrodiil after the girl was born. After the girl's mother, Aunt Lydda's younger sister, had come to the farm with her family, they were killed by bandits on their way to the capital. Lydda was left with the infant girl.

She suddenly thought of the dragon. That huge, black, hulking, beautiful creature. The way its skin gleamed in the sunlight, the way it seemed to bask in the fire that it produced… The way the people fled from it was almost captivating, in its own way. If she didn't know better, she almost admired its furious power.

She was sure that she would never forget the rage she felt when the Imperial captain announced she was to go to the block. Rage turned to silent, bitter hatred.

She swore that she would never forgive, because she would never forget. She had never forgotten anything.

It all happened so fast after that, for her. She followed that Stormcloak, Ralof, through Helgen Keep and all the way to Riverwood. She met Ralof's sister, Gerdur, who sent her on to Whiterun. That was a new experience for her. Sure, she'd been to the Imperial City a handful of times in her youth, but she spent most of her time in Cyrodiil on her aunt's farm or traveling with the Khajiit. And they never stopped anywhere for long.

She loved the air of Skyrim. It was so cold, it was almost cleansing. She could see mountains in all directions, outside. The snow was beautiful in its own, silent way. It was nothing like the dampness of Lydda's farm. There was no Imperial tower to be seen, anywhere, and it was relieving.

As the now grown woman finished off her draugr challenger, she was brought from her thoughts. There was something pulling at her, enveloping her. She heard distant chanting, as if a battalion of warriors was reveling in her success.

She turned, towards a curved wall behind her. The chanting was coming from the wall. She approached it, sword drawn, but there were no enemies to be found. There were etchings on the wall. They were words. Ancient words. The woman didn't know what they meant, but she could clearly read them.

One of the words was glowing.

The chanting grew louder in her head as she got closer to the word. She ran her fingers over the letters and inhaled sharply when understanding flowed into her. She knew this word, she'd heard it before, somewhere… She knew the word. She felt it move through her as the chanting reached a climax in her head. _Fus_. She rolled the word around on her tongue. _Fus_. It felt right.

With a jerk, she withdrew her hand. What was that, just then? What was that strange, calm feeling that had washed over her? She shrugged, turning away.

The Dragonstone was with the draugr, just like the wall of words had said it would be. The woman collected it carefully and fashioned a set of straps to tie it to her back. It would be much easier to take it back to Dragonsreach that way.

As she descended the mountain path, the true cold of Skyrim began to seep into her skin. She loved it. The muggy warmth of Cyrodiil had always bothered her. She did not like the feeling of her clothes sticking to her skin.

The wind only cut deeper as the sun finally fell below the horizon. Even as she saw the rooftops of Honningbrew Meadery and Battle-Born Farm, she could still feel the freezing wind whipping against her cheeks. As she followed the path towards Whiterun Stables, she thought she heard a commotion in the distance. It was hard to see in the dark, but she could make out the forms of three people. They were fighting against something very tall and lanky. The woman didn't know who they were or what they were fighting, but she suddenly wanted to be a part of it. She hoisted the Dragonstone up higher on her back and drew her sword, making her way towards the group.

The three people felled their target before she could reach them. She was disappointed, but not overtly. She sheathed her sword and was prepared to turn away, but a voice behind her captured her attention.

"Well, that's taken care of. No thanks to you," a female voice said, as a huntress with blue war-paint emerged from the darkness.

"You didn't look like you needed any help," the woman replied quietly, glancing at the huntress's two followers. They were inspecting the body of the giant creature.

"Certainly not. But a true warrior would have relished the opportunity to take on a giant," the huntress said haughtily, gesturing to the thing sprawled behind her. "That's why I'm here with my Shield-Brother and Shield-Sister." The woman saw the two followers look up.

"A giant?" the woman said, curiously, looking at its corpse behind the huntress. The huntress raised an eyebrow.

"Have you never seen a giant, stranger?" the huntress asked, hoisting her bow up on her shoulder. She called to one of her friends. "Farkas! Come here!"

The woman watched as a large man with steel armor and a greatsword on his back came over. He had dark hair and strangely silver eyes. The woman noticed that he and the huntress had a similar ferocity about them.

"What is it?" he asked in a gruff voice. The huntress slightly smiled.

"Can you believe that this milk-drinker has never seen a giant?" the huntress chuckled, looking at the woman. "Are you from Skyrim?" The woman shook her head, no.

"Well, an armed woman traveling alone in a foreign land must not be a cowardly one," the huntress said, giving an approving smirk. "My name is Aela, and this is Farkas. My Shield-Sister over there is Ria."

The woman supposed that she too should introduce herself. "My name is Sif."

Aela smiled at Sif as Farkas silently watched the two of them. "If you value honor and glory, you should seek out the Companions at Jorrvaskr," Aela said, the smile still on her face. Farkas raised an eyebrow at Aela's statement, but didn't say anything.

"Hey, we should head back," came Ria's voice, from far behind. Sif observed that she was packing the giant's toes into a leather bag.

"You should come with us to Jorrvaskr, traveler," Aela said. The three of them set on the path toward Whiterun. Ria trotted forward and joined them.

"Aela, what would Kodlak say? We can't just bring her with us," Farkas finally spoke. "Skjor and Vilkas won't be happy, either."

"Oh, gods damn your brother. Sometimes he's too critical for his own good," Aela shot back, causing a growl to rumble up from Farkas' chest. Ria chuckled to herself.

Sif tried to smile, she sincerely tried, but something had prevented her from feeling joy. Something must've happened to her, when she was a child. Sif never felt remorse, she was never guilty for anything, and she could do anything she wanted without a second thought. She had never screamed, she had never cheered or joined her Khajiit comrades in song. She had lived her life silently, and she was content to die silently, when the time came.

The four of them made their way to Whiterun. Aela and Farkas were quiet while Ria rehearsed her telling of their tale; killing a giant was no small task, and the three Shield-Siblings did so without struggle. Aela joined in Ria's rehearsal, and as Sif quietly followed them towards the Cloud District, they seemed to get their story straight.

"You have been quiet this entire time, stranger," Aela said, as she stopped under the Gildergreen. "Do you not have your own tales of victory?"

"I don't much care for boasting," Sif said, quietly. Her eyes connected with Aela's. They were the same color as Farkas'.

"Ah! A woman who lets her actions speak for her. I knew there was something I liked about you," she said approvingly. Sif noticed that Ria had climbed the steps towards a lodging house behind them; Sif assumed that it was Jorrvaskr.

"Aela, we have to go. Skjor will want to hear our story," Farkas grumbled, crossing his arms. Aela ignored him. She instead looked into Sif's eyes, as if she was searching for something there.

"When your duties bring you again to Whiterun, you must meet Kodlak," she said with a firm nod. "The old man would like to meet you."

"Aela." Farkas was growing impatient. She growled at him and turned away from Sif, joining him as they walked up the steps towards the mead hall. Farkas tossed a look over his shoulder at Sif; it was scrutinizing. He was looking for something, too.

Sif wished that she knew what everyone was searching for when they looked at her. It had been happening all her life; when she entered a crowded room, there was a sudden queer hush. When she looked into someone's eyes and spoke, they fell silent, as if their words had been stolen. If someone had the courage to look at her (for not many did), they always looked for _something_.

Sif shrugged it off. She ascended the steps towards Dragonsreach. Once inside, Farengar thanked her for retrieving the Dragonstone, but before he could introduce Sif to his mysterious hooded acquaintance, Irileth informed them that Jarl Balgruuf received reports of a dragon nearby. Sif would've been amused at Farengar's excitement, if she knew something of casual amusement.

"So, Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower?" Sif heard Balgruuf say. When she and Farengar finished ascending the steps, she saw it was an unnerved guard that he was speaking with. The guard had taken off his helmet, revealing yellow-blond hair and frenzied eyes. He was clutching an amulet in his right hand, so fiercely that Sif could smell the blood pooling in his palm. There were drops on the floor, emitting a metallic scent.

"Tell him what you told me," Irileth urged the shaking man. He looked at her with fear in his eyes. "About the dragon," she clarified.

"Uh…That's right," he cleared his throat. "We saw it coming from the south. It was fast… Faster than anything I've ever seen."

"What did it do? Is it attacking the watchtower?" Balgruuf persisted. Sif could detect worry in his voice.

"No, my lord. It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life," he looked up at Sif, then to Irileth. "I thought it would come after me for sure."

Balgruuf nodded. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it." The boy bowed profusely, before retreating down the stairs on unsteady legs. Sif watched his blond head disappear. Balgruuf continued. "Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there."

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate," the dark elf replied. Balgruuf nodded.

"Good. Don't fail me."

Sif watched as Irileth disappeared and Balgruuf turned to address her. The light from the chandelier threw his face into perspective. Sif had the chance to admire the man's honorable stance, his effortless grace, and his unbendable will. It reminded her of that Jarl from Helgen.

"There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friend. I need your help again," Balgruuf said, stepping towards Sif. She suddenly felt crowded. "I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here."

He stepped forward again and put a hand on Sif's shoulder. She would've felt warmth, but she didn't. She only felt his hand, coupled with an inherent emptiness.

"Take that axe, and consider it a gift from my personal armory. It will help you defeat the dragon," Balgruuf gestured to the display case against the wall. "And, Sif." She looked at him. "Please, be careful. We've lost too many fine warriors already." He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and removed his hand, sulking away into his quarters.

Sif approached the display case the Jarl had indicated and lifted the glass top. There was a large two-handed axe, with a leather handle. It was enchanted; even those with an untrained eye could tell. Sif disliked the heaviness of it, but she took it anyway, not wanting to slight the Jarl by ignoring his kindness. She believed his faith in her was misplaced, but she would do her best to fulfill his wishes.

Her purpose for coming to Skyrim was not only to escape Cyrodiil, and whatever was haunting her there. She knew her father was a Nord, and she knew he once owned a sprawling farm in the north-eastern area of the province. She didn't want much, she had never wanted much in her life, but she did want to know a little more about the circumstances of her unfortunate infancy. If she helped Balgruuf, she might have better means to travel northward. She understood that the northern territories were terribly cold, perhaps if she could find a proper guide and some warm clothing… Balgruuf would help her, if she helped him.

If not Balgruuf, perhaps that huntress and her sullen, wolfish friend would help.

She met with Irileth's forces at the gates of Whiterun, and though the Dunmer warned her against proceeding on her own, she did so. She raced across the plains, prepared to brandish her new axe, excited at the thought of seeing another dragon. Sif had never been excited for much, but the magnificence of a dragon did not fail to stir her unused feelings. If only she were to possess such terrifying power.

She came upon the watchtower, but was immediately warned away by a Nord hiding near the entrance. The place was in shambles. As the Nord shouted to Sif, the sound was drowned out by a metallic roar overhead. It shook Sif to her very core. She knew the dragon was back, but it was a different one than the dragon that attacked Helgen. They sounded different. As the huge beast passed overhead, she noted that this one's scales were lighter, with a bronze tint. Definitely a different dragon than the one at Helgen.

Sif dove under a cropping of rock as the dragon swooped over and released a blast of fire. She felt the heat of it through the stone, and she felt the ground shake as the beast landed. She heard shouting as she emerged, axe in hand, and saw that Irileth and her guardsmen were finally arriving. Sif rushed forward and swung, the beast roared in frustration as the axe smacked him across the nose. He snapped at Sif and she jumped back, swinging again. This time, it cut him, and thick, black blood sprayed everywhere as he roared and took flight.

"Bring it down!" Sif yelled. She could feel rage welling up inside her. Arrows flew from behind her as the dragon released another blast of deadly fire. She heard several men scream in agony; the smell of burnt flesh was apparent on the wind. "Bring it down, now!" Sif yelled again, her voice becoming a commanding force. As the arrows sailed, the dragon once more came crashing down.

Sif brandished her axe and began to hack at its wing. The dragon roared, reaching back and snapping at her. It caught her arm and her side, drawing blood and tearing her armor, but with one final swing, she buried the axe in the creature's forehead.

"Ah, Dovahkiin, it is you," the dragon purred. At once, his eyes connected with Sif's and she felt a tugging deep in her soul. "I thought it was. Drem yol lok." The dragon appeared to be speaking to no one but her. "I am proud to die by your hand."

Flecks of the dragon's skin began to flow away in the end as he closed his ember-colored eyes and exhaled deeply. Sif was speechless as more and more of his skin began to peel off and blow away, revealing age-old yellow bones underneath.

Suddenly, a warmth enveloped her, like the warmth she felt when she heard _fus_. She closed her eyes, she opened her palms. Again, she heard the distant chanting in her head, like an entire hall of warriors was celebrating her victory. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the dragon's bones before her, and she felt the word welling up inside of her.

"_FUS_!" she Shouted, suddenly. A blast of air came from her mouth and tore a path into the sky. She didn't know whether it came from her stomach or her heart, but she knew that she had just spoken the dragon language.

And she felt that there were more Words for her to learn, yet.


	3. Chapter 3

Only days after Ulfric was safely inside the walls of the Palace of Kings, all of Skyrim was shaken by the Greybeards' Shout. But that was months ago. Though Ulfric's best scouts hadn't found the Dovahkiin _yet_, he would be found.

Ulfric was actually surprised that _he_ hadn't been the one to be recognized as Dragonborn. He had trained with the Greybeards, he had made the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar as a child, he knew the Way of the Voice more intimately than anything else he'd ever known. Even Arngeir, the leader of the Greybeards, had said that Ulfric showed great promise.

Ulfric himself was meant to be a Greybeard. And that required training. From all that he'd heard, only the Dragonborn could shout without training. Ulfric wasn't interested in the responsibility, no, the _burden_ of being the Dovahkiin. He had much, much more to worry about.

While dragons ravaged the land and roosted on mountaintops, Tullius was moving his forces forward. Word had it that more troops had made it over the border from Cyrodiil. Ulfric would've thought that the little mishap at the Thalmor Embassy would've cut off the Imperials' internal support, at least for a little bit. It sure seemed to piss Elenwen off enough. Maybe she and her damn elves would take their ships back to the Summer Isles.

Jorleif, gods preserve him, had also been kind enough to inform Ulfric that the Dark Brotherhood had apparently been causing quite a bit of turmoil in Falkreath Hold. He was glad to hear it. The more disorder there was, the easier it would be to invade and unite the southerners against the Empire.

All this news about the Brotherhood and the Thalmor Embassy, but nothing about the Dragonborn? It troubled Ulfric. It troubled him more greatly than he wanted anyone to know. He wanted to find the hero, and convince him to join the Stormcloaks. His cause would be much more legitimate if he had the Dovahkiin fighting beside him.

"Ulfric, the Jarls are upset. They don't all support your claim," Galmar said, suddenly, capturing Ulfric's attention once more. He rose from his throne and descended the steps, following Galmar to the war room.

"Should I expect them to, Galmar? Damn the Jarls," Ulfric said, as they gathered around the war table.

"They demand the Moot," Galmar said, raising an eyebrow.

"And damn the Moot!" Ulfric replied, putting his hands on the table. "We should risk letting those milk-drinkers put Torygg's woman on the throne? She'll hand Skyrim over to the elves on a silver plate! Our cause will be lost!"

"That's all the more reason to find it, then. The Jagged Crown will legitimize your claim to the throne," Galmar said, crossing his arms in front of him. Damn him, Ulfric thought. He's certain that he's right.

"A crown doesn't make a kind," Ulfric retorted, turning to the window.

"Yes, but this one…"

"If it even exists," Ulfric added, before Galmar could finish.

"It exists!" he shot back. "And it will be the symbol of the righteousness of our cause. Think about it! The Jagged Crown. It heralds back to a time before jarls and moots. Back to the time when a king was a king because his enemies fell before him, and his people rose because they loved him!" Galmar paused for a moment when Ulfric turned around. "Skyrim needs that king. You will be that king, Ulfric. You must be."

Ulfric paused. Galmar was passionate enough to have faith in his own words. "You're certain you've found it?"

"When have I ever been false with you, my friend?" Galmar said, his eyes lighting up like a young boy's. Ulfric paused for a moment, then sighed. He began to walk back to his throne room.

"Fine, but if this expedition turns out to be a waste of valuable resources, I'm holding you responsible," Ulfric said as he settled into his throne. He thought he heard the palace door open and shut.

"It'll be there," Galmar growled. "You'll see." Ulfric watched as his friend stomped back into the war room, no doubt to plan his silly expedition. Deep in his heart, Ulfric felt that it would be a waste.

He turned his head when he heard someone quietly clearing their throat.

It was a woman. Even though her face was shrouded, he could tell it was so by the curves of her body beneath her tight-fitting garb. The clothes she wore were red and black, and they emitted a strange amount of concentrated darkness. She had a curved ebony dagger at her hip.

The Dark Brotherhood. It was true that he'd never met an agent before, but Ulfric was certain.

He noticed that the only parts of her that weren't covered were her eyes; they were eerily pale. Ulfric also found them strangely familiar. As the woman came closer, his eyes freely roamed over her form before he stopped himself.

It had been quite a while since Ulfric had a woman in his bed. He had devoted too much time to the damned Civil War.

"Only the very foolish or very courageous approach a Jarl without summons," Ulfric said, as gravely as he could. The woman did not reply, she simply stared through him with those cold, pale eyes.

"Which are you, assassin? Foolish, or courageous?" Ulfric asked, hoping to elicit some kind of response. He was more successful that time.

"I'd think that I am an unfortunate combination of the two," she said. Her voice sounded so calm. A strange silence followed. Jorleif looked up at Ulfric with a warning glance.

"What business does the Dark Brotherhood have in Windhelm?" Ulfric asked, doing his best to use the most intimidating voice he could possibly muster. "Better yet, in Eastmarch? Surely your contracts have not brought you this far north from Falkreath."

There wasn't a flicker of worry in her eyes. Ulfric himself began to worry.

"I am not here on contract, Jarl Ulfric," she said. "I bring a message from the Greybeards, nothing more."

The Greybeards? What could they possibly want? "It's about time they turned their gaze from the heavens, back to our bleeding homeland. What do they want?" Ulfric demanded, sitting up in his throne.

"They want to negotiate a truce, until the dragon menace is dealt with," the woman placidly replied. Who was she, their messenger?

"I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, of course. And the dragon attacks _are_ a growing plague," Ulfric sighed, scratching his beard with one hand. "But the political situation is still delicate. I can't afford to appear weak. I can't agree to this unless Tullius himself will be there."

The woman nodded. "General Tullius has already agreed to attend."

Ulfric was struck silent. The woman spoke again, quietly, but with ferocity.

"So, you'll come to the peace council?" she asked, her eyes never straying from his. She must be a fool to have such an absurd amount of confidence, the Jarl thought to himself.

"Yes. I'll give Tullius one more chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs."

The woman nodded and turned away. Ulfric salvaged his mind for a reason to make her turn around once more. He was on the verge of recognizing her, if she'd only look at him for a moment longer.

"Wait, assassin," he called after her, standing up and descending from his throne. She turned, slowly, her eyes trained on his. He swallowed a lump in his throat; was it fear?

"Have you met the Dragonborn? I have heard that he is returned," Ulfric said. Galmar had come out of the war room, he was looking at the assassin with curiosity. "Will he, too, be at High Hrothgar?"

The woman simply nodded once and turned away, silently sweeping out of the palace. Ulfric turned to Galmar, who was watching the door.

"What was that about?" he asked, venomously. Ulfric knew that his friend typically distrusted those who wore hoods or hid their faces. Ulfric shrugged.

"The Greybeards are calling for a peace council at High Hrothgar," Ulfric said. Before Galmar could raise protest, Ulfric continued. "Tullius has already agreed to attend." Galmar was silent.

"So we climb the Seven Thousand Steps, now?" he asked, frustration in his voice. "Only to have those faithless dogs demand more of us than they deserve?"

"The Dragonborn will be there as well." Galmar's face lit up, for the second time that day.

"That's the perfect opportunity for us to recruit him," Galmar said, quietly, stroking his beard in thought.

"Yes, and I am afraid that your Jagged Crown will have to wait for our return," Ulfric said. He turned to Jorleif. "We will be back within a few days. The climb is harrowing, but I have made it many times. The way up is not lost to us." He turned to Galmar. "Gather some supplies, and a few extra cloaks. Beneath the Throat of the World is as freezing as the rest of the damned mountain."

"Yes, my lord."

"We cannot keep the Greybeards waiting. I have no doubt that Tullius and Rikke have already begun their journey. And I'm sure Elisif is with them." Ulfric turned to Galmar. "Make haste! We're leaving here in an hour."

And sure enough, an hour later, the warriors were on the road to Ivarstead. Windhelm Stables had provided them with two large, well-bred stallions, in exchange for a substantial amount of gold. Ulfric had the tendency to be generous when the time called for it.

They rode most of the way in silence. As the sun began to descend, Galmar broke the silence with a question.

"My lord-"

"Galmar, we're the oldest of friends," Ulfric interrupted, before he could continue. "You may forgo the formalities until they are necessary." Until I'm High King, he thought.

"Ah, yes." Galmar cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Were you ever told the story of Sif Still-Born, as a child?"

Ulfric distantly recalled the famous legend. It was said to be untrue, but there were always those that swore by it's legitimacy. "That story didn't become popular until the years of my early manhood. Why do you ask?"

"It's just... Do you remember how the story said that the child caused silence wherever she went?" he continued. Ulfric shrugged.

"Do you think that if the child really did exist, that she would continue to cause silence in adulthood? Or do you think she would outgrow it?" Galmar asked, almost silently. Ulfric could barely hear him over the wind. The two friends turned down a right fork in the path and continued towards a copse of trees.

"I don't know. What made you think of it?" Now Ulfric was curious. Galmar didn't usually brood on things, and he definitely didn't take part in silly Nordic superstitions (unless they involved the Jagged Crown, of course).

"It's just that woman that brought the message from the Greybeards," he replied. "The assassin."

"Yes?"

"Didn't she seem a bit... Strange? I mean, they're a strange lot, but she seemed different."

Ulfric understood Galmar's meaning. He had felt it too, the eerie quiet that she seemed to bring into the usually warm and comfortable Palace of Kings. It was almost as if the entire place had grown cold as soon as she entered, like death itself had entered Ulfric's hall.

That's what the woman brought with her. Death. The choking cold and silence of death.

He didn't want to alarm or encourage Galmar, though, so he dismissed his friend's superstitions and they continued to ride in silence. Ulfric couldn't help but think of it, though. Where had he seen such a woman before? She seemed so familiar.

He dismissed it from his thoughts. He and Galmar rode through the night, and arrived in Ivarstead just as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. They got rooms at the Vilemyr Inn and rested until the sun was high in the sky. It was best for it to shine directly on their backs, and as they began to ascend the Seven Thousand Steps, they were glad that they had waited.

There were no enemies to be defeated on the way up. They were afraid that they might face a frost troll, or worse, a dragon. The only things they met with were a few straggling pilgrims. They reached High Hrothgar within a few short hours.

"Let's hope that they have something good to eat," Galmar said, rubbing his stomach as they entered the ancient monastery. Memories flooded Ulfric's mind; kneeling at Arngeir's feet, staying up through the early hours of the morning scanning stacks of ancient tomes, standing between the four of them as they Shouted at him, one after the other. Galmar's voice brought him from his memories. "I could use some warm venison stew, and a tankard of mead to wash it down. Followed by a sweet roll or some Jazbay tart." Ulfric couldn't deny that he, too, was hungry.

The two of them were greeted by Arngeir. Despite their years of forgone communication, he still clasped Ulfric's hand with both warmth and strength. He directed them to the council table, and mentioned that the Dragonborn and General Tullius would be arriving shortly.

So, Tullius was late. It was probably Elisif that held him up, Ulfric thought. She probably couldn't go anywhere without her damned entourage.

Ulfric and Galmar were pleased to find that the council table was loaded with a variety of delicious and mouthwatering confections; apple stew, roasted venison, spice-rubbed goat chops, potatoes with Eidar cheese, and, to Galmar's delight, plenty of sweet rolls and a variety of delicious tarts. The two ate and drank their fill, stopping only to greet Tullius and Rikke with curt nods of displeasure. When Ulfric saw Elenwen join them, he stood up from his seat. Galmar looked between the two of them, and eventually got up to stand at Ulfric's side.

There was a cold, strange silence in the chamber as the woman from earlier entered. Ulfric looked at her in disbelief. Surely the Greybeards would not allow their messenger to sit in on a private peace council?

Ulfric was shocked beyond belief when the woman took a seat at the head of the table. It couldn't be true... Ulfric wouldn't believe it. This was not the Dragonborn that he envisioned. He saw a Nord man in full armor, wielding a sharp sword or a fierce war hammer. He did not see a woman cloaked in shadows as being the Nordic hero of prophecy. It was unbelievable. He wouldn't believe it, until he himself had tasted of her Voice.

"Now that everyone is here, please take your seats, so we can begin," Arngeir said, from his side of the table. The Imperials sat, but Ulfric remained standing. Arngeir began to speak once more, but Ulfric interrupted him.

"No. You insult us by bringing her to this negotiation?" he angrily pointed at Elenwen, who was giving him a wicked smirk. "Your chief Talos-hunter?"

"That didn't take long," Rikke mumbled. Galmar shot her a look, then responded with a gruff, "Hear, hear!"

"I have every right to be at this negotiation," Elenwen sneered. "I need to ensure that nothing is agreed to here that violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat."

"She's part of the Imperial delegation. You can't dictate who I bring to this council," Tullius added.

"Please, if we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will never get anywhere," Arngeir sighed. Ulfric could tell by the tone in his voice that he thought this a terrible idea. "Perhaps this would be a good time to get the Dragonborn's input on the matter."

Everyone looked to her. Her arms were crossed and she was leaning back in her seat, relaxed. She seemed to be unaware of the uncomfortable air surrounding her. Her eyes flashed to Ulfric, then to Tullius, to whom she gave a firm nod. His expression was so full of rage that it was almost unreadable, but something about the Dragonborn's decision made it seem final. Tullius looked to Elenwen, who was glaring at the Dragonborn with unfathomable anger.

She shoved her chair backwards and stood up, sweeping her cloak behind her. "Very well, Ulfric. Enjoy your petty victory. The Thalmor will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not think of interfering in your civil war."

"Now that it's settled, may we proceed?" Arngeir said, sitting down as Elenwen flew from the hall. Ulfric and Galmar looked at each other before pulling their chairs and taking their seats. Ulfric noticed for the first time that Jarl Balgruuf was also present. And on the side of the Imperials.

"The only reason we agreed to this council was to deal with the dragon menace," Ulfric said, looking at Tullius. "There's nothing else to talk about, unless the Empire is finally ready to renounce it's unjust claim to rule over the free people of Skyrim." He heard Rikke say something to the Dragonborn, which she appeared to ignore. Ulfric continued. "We're here to arrange a temporary truce to allow the Dragonborn here to deal with the dragons. Nothing more."

Tullius voiced his dissatisfaction with Ulfric's claims, before Arngeir officially began the negotiation. Ulfric took control before Tullius even had the opportunity.

"We want control of Markarth. That's our price for agreeing to a truce." Ulfric believed Markarth was good territory. Not only would it bring the Stormcloaks back into the Reach, that daft bastard Ingmund would finally abdicate his throne.

Elisif spoke up. "So that's why you're here, Ulfric? You dare to insult the Greybeards by using this council to advance your own position?" Tullius tried to silence her, but she ignored him. "General, this is outrageous! You can't be taking this demand seriously! I thought we were here to discuss a truce!"

"Elisif!" Tullius finally interrupted. "I said I'd handle it. Ulfric, you can't seriously expect us to give up Markarth at the negotiating table. You hope to gain in council what you've been unable to take in battle, is that it?"

"We've taken it before. I'm only asking for what will be ours soon enough anyway." He glanced at the Dragonborn. She was watching them, silently, with piercing eyes.

"I'm sure Jarl Ulfric does not expect something for nothing," Arngeir said, bringing a smart reply from Rikke that Ulfric ignored. "What would the Empire want in return?"

Both Balgruuf and Elisif protested Tullius' decision, but Ulfric knew that Markarth was his. He didn't care what Torygg's woman had to say about it.

"What do you think, Dragonborn?" Tullius asked, hoping that her loyalty would cause her to give him a fair trade. She shrugged.

"I think Winterhold is a fair trade," she replied in a cool voice. Ulfric was taken aback. He was expecting Riften or the Pale, not something as small as Winterhold. Tullius disagreed with her suggestion, but she asserted it, and he couldn't help but agree with her. He was beside himself with anger.

"Enough! First, let's be clear. This council wasn't my idea. I think it's a waste of time," Tullius shot a look at the Dragonborn, then to Ulfric. "You are a traitor to the Empire, and deserve a traitor's death. But I at least will negotiate in good faith." He once more looked to the Dragonborn, who gave another firm nod.

Ulfric felt relief wash over him. So far, this was working in his favor. "The Dragonborn has spoken, Tullius. Markarth will be ours. Now we'll see if there's anything behind your talk of good faith."

"I expected better of you, Dragonborn. You swore an oath to serve the Emperor. Don't forget it," Tullius said between a growl from Rikke and a frustrated sigh from Elisif. The Dragonborn, swearing an oath to the Emperor? Ulfric looked at Galmar, who nodded gravely as if to say yes, she is now our enemy. Tullius continued. "But I can see now that this is not a negotiation at all. I know you, Ulfric. If I hand over Markarth, you'll be ready with a new demand. Soon enough I'll have you back under the headsman's axe, and this time there won't be any dragon to save you."

"As always, the Empire's fine words are worth nothing!" Ulfric said, more entertained than intimidated by Tullius and his silly threats. Ulfric noticed the man sitting next to Delphine, an age-old acquaintance of his, stand up. What is she doing here, he thought. Who is that old man with her?

"Stop! Are you so blind to our danger that you can't see past your petty disagreements? Here you sit arguing about... nothing! While the fate of the land hangs in the balance!" the old man said with ferocity. Ulfric was surprised at his impudence.

"Is he with you, Delphine? If so, I advise you to tell him to watch his tongue," Ulfric warned.

"He is with me. And I advise you both to listen to what he has to say, before you do anything rash."

"Don't you understand the danger? Don't you understand what the return of the dragons means?" the man continued, to Delphine's pleasure. "Alduin has returned! The World-Eater! Even now, he devours the souls of your fallen comrades! He grows more powerful with every soldier slain in your pointless war! Can you not put aside your hatred for even one moment in the face of this mortal danger?"

There was a moment of silence as both parties digested the information. Alduin, the Harbinger of the End Times? The Eater of Worlds?

"That's enough out of you," Tullius piped up, breaking the silence. "I don't know about the end of the world, but this dragon situation has gotten out of hand. If this truce will help the Dragonborn here put an end to that menace, we both gain. Remember that, Ulfric."

"Shut up. If he's right about Alduin..." Ulfric swallowed. "We both have just as much to lose here, Tullius, remember that."

"Now, back to the matter at hand," he replied. "You know as well as I do that that we can't hand over Markarth on these terms."

"Shor's bones, where will these demands end?" Galmar complained, making his voice heard for the first time in a while. Ulfric ignored him.

"I'm listening." It made more sense for Ulfric to be patient.

"We want the Pale returned to Imperial control. The traitor Skald the Elder will be replaced with a more loyal candidate."

"What next, Tullius? Shall I just hand over all of Skyrim?" Ulfric growled, prepared to stand and storm out if the need called for it.

"I guess I have no choice but to let the Dragonborn decide. Although I'm starting to doubt your fairness."

Give up the Pale? Yeah, right! Ulfric did not favor that idea. Unfortunately for him, the Dragonborn did. So much for a neutral council. Ulfric felt cheated.

"I'm glad you made that decision," Tullius said to her, nodding.

"It seems we may have an agreement. Jarl Ulfric, General Tullius..." Arngeir began, standing up. "These are the terms, currently on the table. Markarth will be handed over to Ulfric's forces. Jarl Ingmund will step down, and Thongvar Silver-Blood will become the Jarl of Markarth."

Ulfric felt a little burst of pride. He dared not look at the Dragonborn.

"The Stormcloaks will withdraw from Winterhold and the Pale, to allow Imperial troops unhindered access. Both Jarls will step down and be replaced by those of Imperial choosing. Do you both agree to this?"

That was less fortunate, but still more fortunate than having to give up the Stormcloaks' hold on the Rift.

"The Sons of Skyrim will live up to their agreements. As long as the Imperials hold to theirs," Ulfric announced. He couldn't resist the opportunity to goad Elisif. That wretched woman could've very well been the cause of this war, had Ulfric allowed Torygg to live a bit longer. "What about you, Elisif? Are these terms to your liking? Speak up. I'm sure General Tullius is waiting to do your bidding."

Elisif turned away from him. "I have nothing to say to that murderer," she said, turning towards Tullius. "General, you've proven yourself a good friend to Skyrim. I continue to trust that you will do your utmost to safeguard our interests."

"Thank you, Jarl Elisif. I appreciate your loyalty," Tullius replied, causing Ulfric to swallow a gag. "The Empire can live with these terms, yes. For a temporary truce, until the dragon menace is dealt with. And after that, Ulfric… There will be a reckoning. Count on it."

Ulfric turned away, standing to leave. He couldn't help but overhear Tullius reprimanding the Dragonborn. As he and Galmar left, he went over the terms of their agreement in his head. The Pale and Winterhold for Markarth? The stipulations were obviously weighted in his favor. Both of those holds could more than easily be retaken. As he and Galmar left the shelter of High Hrothgar and stepped into the blinding snows of the mountain, he turned to his friend.

"What did you think of the terms, Galmar?" Ulfric nearly had to shout over the wind.

"If I didn't know any better, I would've thought she joined our cause instead of theirs!" Galmar shouted in reply, a smile evident on his face.

That's exactly what Ulfric was thinking of as they descended the mountain.


	4. Chapter 4

The last few months of Sif's life had been a whirlwind.

Even after she had first met with the Greybeards, gotten the horn of Jurgen Windcaller from Delphine, and learned the proper way to discover Shouts and unlock their powers, still not much had changed inside her. She didn't pay any mind to killing, and she did it very well. She had also picked up a fancy for messing with locks and acquiring relatively expensive things.

Perhaps that's why she joined the Thieves Guild.

Actually, she joined at the request of Etienne Rarnis. He had been so thankful for her help in getting him out of the Thalmor Embassy, that he had offered to escort her to Riften and introduce her to Brynjolf himself. It didn't seem like a bad idea, so she wrote to Delphine and joined Etienne. While she was in Riften, she could find Esbern. And she did just that. After demonstrating her nearly flawless skills and picking both locks and pockets, Brynjolf told her exactly where the old man was hiding. Sif made a silent promise to Brynjolf that she would return to Riften, after she took Esbern to Delphine.

One thing lead to another, and she ended up climbing up to the Throat of the World, before she could even think about Riften or the Guild. And she met Paarthurnax. Her fascination with dragons and their unquestionable power and superiority to the two-legged races had not ebbed in the slightest. For all the words that Sif _hadn't_ spoken on her journey, she unleashed them upon Paarthurnax. She stayed at the Throat of the World for hours. She even camped there a few times. She questioned him on everything from dragon lore to the stories of Sovngarde. Although he had been on the mountain for many years, his knowledge was still more comprehensive than any volumes that Sif had been able to pick up.

They often meditated together. Paarthurnax told he most of what he knew about Alduin and the Dragon War. There was some that he still kept from her, though. She didn't mind it. It only seemed right that she asked him about her past. Paarthurnax was the last person, erm, _dragon_ that she would've gone to, but he seemed to know quite a bit about the Skyrim.

"You're asking me about your own past, _dovahkiin_?" he said, when she first sprang the question. She silently nodded. There was something about Sif's demeanor that was beyond question. Paarthurnax couldn't help but be curious. "I know little of current affairs."

"I think I'm in my twenties," Sif stated. She wasn't exactly sure how old she was.

"Yes, but that is still current," he said, clicking his tongue. Sif could tell that he was willing to try, and something similar to thankfulness rose in her belly. Paarthurnax sighed, expelling steaming air from his nostrils. "Tell me what you know."

"I've been told that I was born here, in Skyrim," she began. Paarthurnax nodded. "To an Imperial mother and a Nord father. I don't know their names. My mother's sister raised me, and she never revealed them. They were killed when I was still an infant. But…" she paused. "My aunt always gave me the impression that my mother and father were _chased_ out of Skyrim, after I was born." Paarthurnax clicked his tongue.

"I cannot help you, but I will advise you nonetheless," he said, exhaling again. "You have the soul of a _dov_ inside of you, as the _Dovahkiin_ is supposed to. But something about it is… Strange. Different than the Septim rulers of ages past." He looked at Sif with that famous searching expression. She cursed to herself. What was everyone searching for? "I believe it would be best if you were to first find out why that is."

"Perhaps Arngeir can help," Sif mumbled. Paarthurnax nodded, told her to trust her instincts, and took wing. She watched him disappear into the clouds before wrapping a cloak around her Thieves' garb and making the descent to High Hrothgar.

She never asked Arngeir about the dragon soul. He had been strangely distant lately, and she didn't want to perturb him. She feared that it might've prevented her from getting any information out of him in the future. He was upset enough that she spent so much time with Paarthurnax.

Her next object was to find an Elder Scroll, but the Guild had other plans for her. They needed a job done out at Goldenglow Estate, outside of Riften. Apparently someone had been messing with the Black-Briar family, and Maven wanted to get a message across. Sif performed the job as she was told to, sneaking in and killing Aringoth silently. She was then hired by Maven to botch a special barrel at Honningbrew Meadery, which she also did as she was told to do.

Despite Brynjolf's warm curiosity, and Etienne's eagerness for Sif to become acquainted with all of her Guild-mates, she felt no loyalty or companionship within the Guild. She had simply reached the end of her trail, and she somehow hoped that working jobs for Brynjolf and Mercer would lead her to more clues about her past. Paarthurnax had told her to trust her instincts. There was hardly a time when she didn't.

She didn't know what to think of herself. She hadn't really thought of herself. She came to Skyrim to escape Cyrodiil, and to find out where she came from. The Imperial interception had inspired nothing but hatred, just like when she found her Khajiit companions butchered in their camp. Even when she found nothing but ashes at her Aunt Lydda's farm, there was a slight stirring of hatred. All she had ever felt so far was hatred, and a sense of duty. There was nothing else to be done, but to leave Cyrodiil.

Being at the Meadery had reminded her of her encounter with Aela and Farkas. Her previous return to Whiterun made her almost want to pay a visit to Jorrvaskr, but she did not. She had too much to be busy with.

Meeting Nocturnal had been her first moment of realizing that the truth of her birth would take a bit of digging to find. After she had met Karliah and Brynjolf at Nightingale Hall, and they summoned Nocturnal to take the oath, the Daedric being singled Sif out with a sarcastic remark.

"Oh, Karliah, you have brought me Mora's prize," she had sneered, in all her obscurity. "For this generosity, I'm of a mind to kill Mercer Frey myself."

Karliah and Brynjolf asked what Nocturnal had meant after the ritual was complete, but Sif had no more of an idea than they did. She wasn't familiar with the Daedra, and had never participated in any kind of rituals.

"Who is Mora?" Sif asked Karliah, as they were leaving Nightingale Hall.

"I've never heard the name," she said, in almost a whisper. "Brynjolf, how about you?"

"No, lass, can't say I know anyone called Mora."

It was a good thing that she had always distrusted Mercer Frey. It made him easier to hate, when the time for it came, and definitely easier to kill. Before Karliah and Brynjolf had even made it to the statue, Sif had run Mercer through with her ebony dagger. The entire time, she was thinking of what Nocturnal had said, about _Mora._ She kept that name in her head. That could've been a clue to figuring out who she was, and why everyone was so disturbed by her. She particularly hated the way Karliah looked at her, with that forlorn, pitying expression. She considered killing the Dunmer for a time, but decided that it would be strange if the Nightingale suddenly went missing.

She felt that Brynjolf made a wrong choice in choosing her to head the Guild, but if it meant that her dealings with it could become optional, she didn't much care. She didn't much care about anything.

The night after she killed Mercer, she laid down in the ragged cot that was she claimed at the Guild cistern, and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep. When she awoke, she was no longer in the cistern. She was slightly alarmed; she felt her hips where her daggers were. They were both there. That reassured her, a little bit. When she sat up, she noticed a figure lounging on top of the book case in shrouded garb. It appeared to be a woman.

Sif sat up as the woman spoke. "Sleep well?" she asked, in a calm voice. Sif looked around; she saw a ragged cot, some old furniture, and three bound figures, kneeling near the opposite side of the room. One of them had a tail.

"Who are you?" Sif asked, rubbing the back of her head and getting to her feet.

"Does it matter?" the woman shrugged. "You're warm, dry… And still very much alive. That's more than can be said for old Aringoth, hmm?"

Aringoth, Sif thought. She killed him ages ago, it seemed like. "You know about that?" Sif asked, shifting her weight to the other foot.

"Half of Skyrim knows. The Thieves Guild murders an old Altmer in his own bed? Things like that tend to get around," she said. Before Sif could reply, she continued. "Oh, but don't misunderstand. I'm not criticizing. The fool had it coming, and you got Goldenglow for the Guild, to boot." Sif nodded. "But there is a slight… Problem."

"Problem?" Sif asked, strangely and suddenly curious.

"You see, there had already been a contract out on Aringoth's head, for the Dark Brotherhood to complete," the woman gestured to herself. "For me, and my associates. Aringoth was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood kill. A kill that you stole, and a kill you must repay."

Sif looked around. She looked back at the woman and nodded towards the three bound figures. "You want me to murder one of them?"

"You're very sharp," she replied, chuckling slightly. "There's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive. Why don't you see if you can figure out which one it is?" She sighed. "Choose, and kill. I just want to admire."

Sif nodded again, looking to her left. She approached the three captives, the first being a Nord (who pleaded for his release), the second a woman (who shouted several death threats), and the third had the unmistakable purring voice of a Khajiit.

Memories flowed back to her. When she was a girl, and she was with the tribe of merchants, she befriended one of their sons. His name was Jarra. The two occasionally played games like tag and hide-and-go-seek, but they mostly practiced picking locks. She had spent much time with him. At first he distrusted her, saying, "The smooth-skins have no place here," but his mother had scolded him and that had somehow changed his mind. He had even called her decently beautiful, once.

Sif didn't think she was beautiful. But then again, she didn't think of herself that often. She could count on one hand the amount of times she had looked in a mirror.

She couldn't kill the Khajiit prisoner before her. She knew that. She killed the other two without pause, but she couldn't kill the Khajiit. He reminded her too much of Jarra.

The mysterious woman congratulated Sif on her grace and composure, and then pleaded for her to come to Falkreath. She introduced herself as Astrid, the matron of the Dark Brotherhood. Sif didn't trust Astrid for a second, and the Elder Scroll was still in the back of her mind, but she decided to go with Astrid.

Weeks passed by like wind, and she found no companionship in the Dark Brotherhood, no more than she did in the Guild. She would do contracts as they came; she travelled very lightly and learned to move in the shadows with her new shrouded garb. Festus Krex, the old mage, even taught her a few basic Destruction spells. It was a new feeling for Sif to stream fire from her fingertips, and she enjoyed it. Still, nothing was better than the cold hilt of a blade in her hand.

As with the Guild, internal strife was abundant in the Brotherhood. Astrid seemed to be growing more and more nervous by the day, for a reason that Sif couldn't pinpoint. It had something to do with Cicero. Sif thought him annoying, but Astrid thought him something more. She had reached her wits' end and ordered Sif to hide in the Night Mother's coffin, to spy on Cicero while he ranted to himself.

So, doing as she was told, she squeezed into the dank-smelling coffin with the shriveled-up skeleton. That was the second time that she realized that she was still far from the truth of her birth. She heard Cicero ranting outside. Her pupils dilated, she could see the faint outline of a withered cheek in the darkness. Another voice arose, more clearly than Cicero's.

"Poor Cicero," it said. "Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant."

Sif realized that the shriveled-up skeleton was the one that was speaking. And it was speaking to her. Cicero couldn't hear it.

"But he will never hear my voice. He is not like you, he is not the Listener."

Sif was going to respond, but she thought better of it, and continued to quietly listen.

"I am speaking to you, because you are the one, Sif Still-Born. Journey to Volenruud, now. Speak with Amaund Motierre. When Cicero finds you, tell him that the time had come, and that darkness arises when silence dies."

Still-Born? Sif thought. She never had a family name. She knew that the Nords were very uncreative with their clan names. She had come across the Battle-Borns, the Honey-Hands, and even a Horse-Crusher. Never a Still-Born, though. But she wasn't a full Nord. Weren't stillborn children born dead? What did that have to do with her?

"Yes, little Still-Born child, the Night Mother knows you," that whispering continued. It began to hurt Sif's ears. "We all do." The Night Mother spoke no more when Cicero found Sif.

She went to Volenruud, much to Astrid's dismay, and retrieved a sealed letter from that Motierre man. Astrid was shocked to hear that he wanted to buy a contract on the Emperor of Tamriel, but she was excited. It could mean the return of the declining Brotherhood. Sif was indifferent towards killing Gaius Mora, and even took pleasure in hunting Cicero like an animal. His voice was worse that the Night Mother's. He even begged for his life. She found that quite amusing. It was almost as if he had given her a thousand reasons to slaughter him, but he had begged otherwise when the time came. It made no difference.

On her way to Markarth, to find information about the location of the Gourmet, she witnessed a sloppy assassination in the marketplace. It was her first time in Markarth. It made the impression that the Jarl had issues with control. She assumed that the residents of Markarth got away with a lot more than they were supposed to get away with.

Good, she thought. That'll make killing this chef character a lot easier than it normally would've been. She made her way to Understone Keep, where Festus had told her she would find the chef, but she was stopped by the guards outside.

"Oi, you look familiar," one of them stopped her. He spoke with a condescending voice. These were Imperial guards, she reminded herself. They were on the side of the Empire. The same side that tried to take her to the headsman's block, all those months ago. Tullius and his men probably had it out for her, just like they had it out for Ulfric Stormcloak.

"I have business with the Jarl," she said, trying to slip past him. He grabbed her arm in a vice grip and squeezed. She felt no pain. She had yet to feel pain. It made her uncomfortable, yes, but she did not feel any pain. She felt the guard glaring at her through his helmet.

"Business with the Jarl, eh? You best keep that dagger in its sheath. People like you never last long around here."

She didn't like his tone, and she didn't like the fact that he was making a spectacle of her to the other guards. She had changed her clothes before she left the Sanctuary to avoid detection, but she had still been picked up. It was unusual. Astrid would scold her.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, pulling her arm away and brushing past him. The inside of the Keep was a mess. She hated Dwemer ruins, and she hated Dwarven technology. It can only be assumed that she hated Markarth, as well. Which she did. Riften was shady, Falkreath was underdeveloped, but Markarth was poisoned with corruption. She could smell it on the air.

She found the chef fellow and suggested that they have a few drinks, just as Astrid had suggested. Sure enough, he was staggering drunk into his stone bed. Sif killed him and stripped his body before too much blood could stain his chef's uniform.

She turned around to find a woman standing in the doorway.

The woman was stunned. Her mouth was hanging open, she had obviously seen the whole thing. Sif held up a hand, which was covered in blood, and opened her mouth to speak, but the woman screamed.

"Murderer! _Murder_! _Help_!" she shouted, turning and running from Sif's sight before she could react. "_Someone has murdered my husband!"_ She heard the woman shouting through the keep. Cursing to herself, she stuffed the clothes in her bag and drew her dagger. She would have to fight her way out. Nocturnal never blessed her with invisibility because she never returned the Skeleton Key. Sif almost wished that she had.

She ducked down to avoid an arrow sailing past her head and turned to flatten herself against the wall as she slid around the corner and jumped down to the steps below. If that screaming woman left the Keep, surely all of Markarth had been alerted to her presence.

She emerged from the Keep amidst the clashing of several swords trying to strike her at once. She swore that she felt something graze her midsection, but she felt no pain and continued. All of Markarth nearly chased her for miles after she left the city.

After she returned, Festus and Babette immediately had her sit down. Apparently the cut on her ribs had been bleeding out, but Sif didn't feel a thing. Only a dull itch, which she had been mindlessly scratched in the carriage back to Falkreath. She wondered how much blood she had left on the carriage seat. She was cleaned up and prepared to pose as the Gourmet, after she found him and slaughtered him in Eastmarch.

The only thing she had trouble with was impersonating him. She wasn't good at assuming _any_ personality, not even her own. And she hated Solitude. The presence of the Empire made her remember that day in Helgen.

After the poisoning of the Emperor's double went horribly wrong, and Sif rushed back to Falkreath, she knew Astrid's time had come. She was so angry, in fact, that she killed every single Penitus Oculatus agent that crossed her path. She slit Astrid's throat with no shred of remorse. She had experienced betrayal, it had made her kill even more ruthlessly than before.

The Imperials had come back to strike her again.

After Nazir and Babette were safely moved to Dawnstar with the Mother's coffin, Sif channeled her vengeance and decided to move against the Imperials, in the best way that she could. The Mother warned her against it, but she decided to do it anyway. She promised Nazir that she would be back to Dawnstar soon.

She joined the Imperial Legion days later, in Solitude. Seeing the face of General Tullius fueled the fire in her belly. She wanted to lop off his head, the way that he almost lopped off hers. Being in the Guild and the Brotherhood had taught her that destruction is most efficient when it starts from the inside. She followed the Legate's orders as well as she could, but she never changed her garb and never let them see her face. It was crucial to her plan that they didn't see her face.

The Legate had her conquer a fort near Solitude, Fort Hraggstad, without the help of any other soldiers. She was pleased. They would only get in her way. Luckily, the fort had been claimed by bandits instead of Stormcloaks. She was reluctant to kill the people she would soon be fighting beside.

After that, the Legate had mentioned something about a crown. They never went to find the Jagged Crown, because Paarthurnax had Arngeir send word to Sif about an important meeting. Dragons were a priority in her life, and she didn't much care for the Legion anyway.

She took time from the Legion's petty missions to find the Elder Scroll, as Paarthurnax had suggested. Arngeir said that she should check the College of Winterhold. She had never been to Winterhold. She liked the village, to her surprise, but she didn't like the College. The elf woman standing guard out front wouldn't let her past until she demonstrated some sort of spell. Instead, Sif demonstrated Unrelenting Force and knocked the woman nearly over the edge and into the sea. She lead Sif across the bridge and into the College.

She met another woman named Mirabelle, who was eager to help the Dragonborn in any way she could. She directed Sif to the Arcanaeum, where an Orsimer named Urag gro-Shub was watching over his books as if they were his children.

"Disrupt my Arcanaeum, and I'll have you torn apart by angry Atronachs," he growled as she found her way around the several volumes stacked on the floor. "Are we clear?"

Sif looked up. When her eyes met the Orc's, he grew silent.

"I'm looking for any information on an Elder Scroll," she said, putting her hands down on her table. Her dress was less imposing than usual; she had exchanged her shrouded clothing for a set of robes and furs, to keep her warm on the journey. Her half-Nord blood granted her a partial resistance to the cold, but Winterhold was cold enough to freeze a dragon's blood.

The Orc stood up. "An Elder Scroll, huh? There won't be much, but I'll bring what I have." He disappeared and returned with two volumes. As he handed them to Sif, she turned to take a seat at one of the tables behind her. She began to read.

"Are you a Nord?" she heard Urag speak up from his position behind his desk. Sif looked up and nodded.

"I'm half-Nord," she responded.

"You have Imperial blood?" he asked again, raising an eyebrow. Sif nodded, maintaining eye contact. She had never seen an Orc before. It was a fascinating sight indeed. He spoke again. "What's your name, girl?"

"Sif," she replied. She finished leafing through the first book and found nothing. She set it down and picked up the next.

"Ha-ha, very funny," Urag grumbled, causing her to look up again. In response to her blankly inquisitive look, he chuckled again. "You're trying to scare me, aren't you? What's your real name?"

"My name is Sif."

There was a silence suddenly upon them that was so thick, she sensed that the Orc was holding his breath. She could hear his heartbeat and the blood rushing through his veins. She thought that was why she made such a good assassin; she could hear her targets before she could see them. It was something that she'd always been able to do, and she had never thought twice about it. In fact, she thought that everyone was capable of it.

"Who gave you that name?" he asked, cutting through the silence. Sif heard him swallow. "Was it some kind of joke or something?"

She shrugged. "My parents named me, I guess."

"Don't they know the stories? Sif Golden-Hair was _golden-haired,_ as her name implies," he said, standing up and going to retrieve a book. When he returned, he opened it up and found a page, then handed it to Sif. It was a book of legends and myths, open to a story about a maiden called Sif Golden-Hair, who the sun had supposedly stolen its light to warm the world.

"I know its a popular name for girls, but the only other Sif I've met had yellow hair," Urag said, sitting down in his seat. "Your hair is as black as night."

Sif shrugged. "It's not my fault. I don't know why they named me that."

"Why don't you ask them?" came the combative reply.

"They're dead."

Another heavy silence. It almost emanated from Sif's body. She wasn't aware of the chill that she brought into a room, but she knew of the power she had over people.

"Have you lived in Skyrim all your life?" Urag asked after a bit of silence. Sif stopped flipping through her second book and snapped it shut, standing up.

"I was born here, but raised in Cyrodiil." His eyes seemed to widen at her reply. He gestured to the book of myths that she had set down on the table, before she had started the other book.

"So it's true. I always thought the Nords were crazy, with their damn superstitions. For once, they may be right."

She was silent. He uncrossed his arms and stood up, towering over her. He came over to take the "Ruminations" book from her hands and stock it back up on the shelves. He came back and looked into her eyes.

"You're Sif Still-Born."

That single statement launched an entire whirlwind of memories in her mind. She saw the Night Mother once again, she remembered watching the sliver of light illuminate the outer edge of her decayed cheek as she whispered to Sif. She had called Sif "Still-Born". She remembered meeting Nocturnal, another Daedra, who hadn't called her Still-Born but had instead simply referred to her as "Mora's prize". Who was Mora, then? Another Daedra? Or perhaps the entity that had been after her in Cyrodiil and had destroyed all aspects of her childhood?

She didn't know quite how to respond to Urag gro-Shub's statement. She wanted to know more about that name. She wanted to know how he knew who she was, when they had never met before.

"Tell me what that means," she suddenly said, more hastily and aggressively than she had meant to. He looked alarmed, but she continued. "I've heard that before. Someone has called me that before and I don't know what it means."

He walked to her table and grabbed the book of myths, leaping through the pages until he found a section near the back that was to his liking. He cleared his throat and began to read.

"Not long ago, a child was born of two northern farmers. The woman was called Isa Green-Field and her husband was Hodarr Green-Field. When the child was born, they saw that it was a daughter, so they called her Sif, like the golden maiden of legends. But the child was not golden, and she was not breathing; her hair was black as midnight and her skin was as pale as moonstone. The farmers mourned their stillborn child and buried her deep underground. Isa Green-Field became Isa Cold-Womb. The next morning, Isa Cold-Womb was awoken by a terrible wail. She came outside to find her stillborn child, alive, in a bed of straw. The child's grave-mound was undisturbed, yet she was risen from it."

Sif swallowed a lump in her throat as the Orc continued in a gruff voice, made for storytelling.

"The farmers' neighbors feared that Isa Cold-Womb and her husband had been calling upon the Daedra to resurrect their stillborn daughter. They chased the farmers and their pale child from their farm. They went over mountains and crossed rivers, and it is said that their child's sudden silence sent a chill through the mountains that kept even the most wicked creatures at bay. They fled Skyrim into Cyrodiil, Isa Cold-Womb's homeland. The farmers and their child were never seen again, but the chill of Sif Still-Born remains beneath the Throat of the World."

He snapped the book shut and looked up at her, expecting a reply. She was quite shaken. She was _really_ shaken. Born dead? So the name the Night Mother had used was her true Nordic name. And the chill… That was why people were so uncomfortable with her. She had been dead, and the chill of death hadn't left her.

"I was born dead," she stated, looking up at Urag with an unwavering gaze. He swallowed again; she heard his heart begin to beat a bit faster. "Is that all there is?"

"I suppose so. I'd never thought much of it, and when people started whispering the Sif Still-Born had come back, I thought it was even more ridiculous," he shook his head in disbelief. "But I see how they could think that it's true."

"What should I do if I want to… Learn more, about the legend?" she asked, squeezing her fists at her sides. He shrugged.

"The legend says they were northern farmers," he cleared his throat. "Your parents were northern farmers. Maybe check the Pale, Hjaalmarch… Perhaps Eastmarch, too. Someone might know where the farm was."

She thanked him and he directed her to Septimus Signus, who was holed up in an icy cave in the far north with some Dwemer artifacts. In exchange for telling her where to find the scroll, Septimus asked her to fill a blank lexicon for him. She agreed, not having much of a choice.

Much to her dismay, the Elder Scroll was in the darkest pits of some gods-forsaken Dwarven city. She hated Dwarven ruins, she hated the Falmer, she hated all their lethal steam-powered devices. She did as Septimus asked; she inscribed the lexicon and found the Elder Scroll.

She took it immediately to Paarthurnax, glad to meet him again. It was the first time she had been glad to meet with anyone. She couldn't help but be enamored with the glint of snow against his scales, and the majesty of his Thu'um. She commanded a power Voice, she knew, but his had been in use long before she was even a thought. She thought of asking him of the story of her birth, but the thought went from her mind. There were more pressing matters at hand.

When she learned Dragonrend, she felt the incredible power she had just tapped into. Nord hero or no, having the power to command a dragon was a feat not easily accomplished. Dragons captivated her. The only times in her journey where she had truly felt at home were with Paarthurnax, atop the cold isolation of the Throat of the World.

"…but the chill of Sif Still-Born remains, beneath the Throat of the World."

She wondered if it had remained on top, too.

It was only natural that she was enamored by Alduin. His black scales were nothing like Paarthurnax's, or any dragon she had yet seen. He was much younger and much stronger. He greeted her with hatred, which she disliked. She thought that perhaps in another world, they might've been allies.

She remembered the last time that she saw him very specifically. It was one of the most significant moments of her life. She was so fascinated by the power of the dragons that she almost regretted when she had to kill them, and Alduin was no exception. His obvious disdain for her was not even in her mind. As she and Paarthurnax did battle against the World-Eater, unleashing their furious voices against him, she began to feel truly at one with the dragon's soul inside of her.

Ever since the Greybeards taught her how to interpret the dragon language in order to make her Thu'um stronger, she had travelled great distances on her own to find the Words of Power. She almost got a rush from every one, every time she felt that understanding flow through her… It was like feeling _fus_ again, for the first time, only stronger.

Despite the force of their combined voices, Alduin escaped into the Nord after-world of Sovngarde. After discussion with both Paarthurnax and Jarl Balgruuf, only one thing could be done. They had to trap a dragon that could take her to Sovngarde, and to Alduin.

Balgruuf refused to help her unless the turmoil of the Civil War ceased. She was suddenly reminded of the Legion, and the duty she swore to Tullius and the Emperor. In the midst of her self-discovery and her dealings with dragons, she had completely forgotten about the Imperials. They would still want her to find the Jagged Crown.

Damn the Emperor, she thought. He'll be dead by my hand soon enough.

Balgruuf promised her that he would help trap a dragon if she could find a way to end the Civil War, at least temporarily. Tullius hated the idea, but her silence convinced him that the dragons were more important than their war. After she convinced Tullius to travel to High Hrothgar, she paid her first visit to Eastmarch, and to Windhelm, respectively.

She entered the Palace of Kings under the watchful eye of Stormcloak guards. She had donned her shrouded robes once more. She didn't want Tullius or Ulfric Stormcloak seeing her face. She didn't particularly want anyone seeing her face.

When she entered the hall, she heard the heartbeats of many men inside. Warrior men. Jarl Ulfric was heavily guarded. She glided along the carpet to appear in front of him and cleared her throat, causing him to look in her direction.

His pupils dilated for a moment as he took in her appearance. She kept her eyes on his face.

"Only the very foolish or very courageous approach a Jarl without summons," he finally said, clearing his throat beforehand. Sif didn't reply. She sensed the power of his Thu'um. It was strong indeed, but nothing to hers.

"Which are you, assassin? Foolish, or courageous?" he asked, breaking the silence that she inevitably brought with her, wherever she went. She shrugged, expressionless.

"I'd think that I am an unfortunate combination of the two," she said, in a calming voice. He appeared to be at a loss for clever words, but he was soon with another sharp reply.

"What business does the Dark Brotherhood have in Windhelm? Better yet, in Eastmarch? Surely your contracts have not brought you this far north from Falkreath," he asked, smirking to himself. He was obviously impressed by his wealth of knowledge. Sif almost found it amusing; little did he know, the Brotherhood had cleared out of Falkreath weeks ago. Being this far north, news must've travelled slow.

"I am not here on contract, Jarl Ulfric. I bring a message from the Greybeards, nothing more. They want to negotiate a truce, until the dragon menace is dealt with."

There was a temporary look of disbelief on his face.

"I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, of course. And the dragon attacks _are_ a growing plague, but the political situation is still delicate. I can't afford to appear weak. I can't agree to this unless Tullius himself will be there," he said, scratching his beard and running a hand through his hair. He shifted positions in his seat. Sif heard his heartbeat change pace for a moment.

"General Tullius has already agreed to attend," Sif said, nodding.

He was silent. She had gotten him.

"So, you'll come to the peace council?" she asked, her eyes trained on his. They were an icy blue.

"Yes. I'll give Tullius one more chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs," he said, sighing to himself and resting his chin in his hand. Sif turned away. Now, for her travel to High Hrothgar. She had promised to meet Tullius before she went up. She was surprised that he hadn't seen through her yet.

"Wait, assassin." She turned around when she heard Jarl Ulfric call her back. He had stood, and he had a rather imposing figure. When he wasn't bound up in the back of an Imperial carriage.

That day seemed so long ago, Sif thought to herself. What had it been, months?

"Have you met the Dragonborn? I have heard that he is returned," the Jarl asked. Sif almost chuckled to herself. "Will he, too, be at High Hrothgar?"

Not many people knew that she was Dragonborn, but they were always loathe to find out it was her. She was a half-blood woman, not a dashingly invincible Nordic hero. It almost gave her some kind of satisfaction to deny them their wishes.

She confirmed Jarl Ulfric's question and turned, leaving the Palace.

And so the Greybeards held a council.


	5. Chapter 5

When the peace council adjourned, the Dragonborn was throughly satisfied with what she had done. She had wanted to begin to cripple Tullius, at the negotiating table instead of in action. He voiced his displeasure with her as soon as Jarl Ulfric and his housecarl left the room. Afterwards, the remaining few of them had discussed the process for trapping a dragon. Esbern told her the words to the Shout that would call Odaviing.

She was glad to be leaving when the time came. She wished that she could return to Paarthurnax and tell him everything, but she had to return Septimus' Lexicon. Then it would be on to Whiterun, to call Odaviing. Perhaps she could stop at Jorrvaskr, too.

"Dragonborn, wait," she heard as she left the chamber. She turned to see Delphine, with Esbern in tow. She had a grave look on her face. Sif remained silent.

"We know you've been talking with Paarthurnax," Delphine began in a condescending tone. She hoped to arouse a guilty feeling from Sif, but her hopes were in vain. Sif did not yet know the meaning of guilt. She cleared her throat and continued. "And we've come to tell you that we cannot help you any further until Paarthurnax is dead."

Sif inhaled sharply. To kill Paarthurnax? That would be something she couldn't do, even if her life depended on it. She wanted to jump to his defense. She decided that she wouldn't do it. If Delphine and Esbern wanted Paarthurnax dead, they could kill him on their own.

"I suppose we part ways," Sif said quietly, shrugging a bit as she pulled her cowl tighter across her face. Delphine narrowed her eyes.

"You won't do it?" she asked. Sif nodded. Her eyes became slits. "Then we have nothing more to say to you. We'll be waiting at Sky Haven Temple if you change your mind."

"I won't," Sif whispered as the two old Blades left the monastery. She wasn't far behind them. She enjoyed the solitude of High Hrothgar, but sometimes it became too much. After the council, she truly wanted to be alone.

Before she could return the Lexicon to Septimus, she decided to return to Dawnstar. It was on the way to Winterhold, and she knew that Nazir was probably waiting for her so they could finally complete the contract on the Emperor of Tamriel. Rikke, too, would be expecting her return to Solitude. There was still the issue of the Jagged Crown. Once she arrived back in Ivarstead, she called Shadowmere and they began their journey.

The ride was not at all dangerous, nor was it incredibly cold. She had kept quite a few furs for herself after eliminating the occasional wolf or bear that crossed her path, and with them she had made a heavy, hooded cloak. It kept her very warm on her northern excursions, so much so that she occasionally had to put the hood down or undo the top clasp for a fresh breath of icy wind.

She rode without stopping. As she came into the Pale, she suddenly thought of Vittoria Vici. Killing her was so incredibly easy. Killing was so incredibly easy. It's almost routine for me to take someone's like, Sif thought to herself. No part of me has ever cared for anything but protection, vengeance, and destruction.

She supposed that being protective wasn't all that bad, but that was the closest thing she had felt to an actual kinship. Perhaps Paarthurnax was her friend? No. She protected him, perhaps she even felt responsible for him, but he was her mentor. She was nothing more than a curious student. She would protect him, though; she would have the heads of Delphine and Esbern if they tried anything.

She used the secret entrance to the Sanctuary and found Babette, who immediately took her to Nazir. The place was bustling with new recruits. They vowed their allegiance to her as she passed. Nazir was glad to see her. He clasped her shoulder, just as Jarl Balgruuf had done, all those months ago.

"Where have you been, friend?" he asked, with a smile on his face. "It's been a few weeks, but it feels like years. Are you ready to complete the contract?"

"It must be done," Sif nodded gravely. "Where should I begin?"

She followed Nazir as he walked to the main table in the room. There was a large map spread over it. He pointed a long finger to the south.

"You're going to the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. Remember Amaund Motierre?" To this, she replied with another grave nod. "Go to him. He should be hiding out in the back room." As Sif turned to leave once more, Nazir spoke. "Do this for us, Sif. Do it for the Brotherhood. We're all counting on you."

She paused for a moment. "I'll be back with the Emperor's head."

And she returned. Not with the Emperor's head, but with his amulet, and a lot of septims. More than she'd ever seen in her life. She paid most of them to her old acquaintance Delvin, so he could fix up the new Sanctuary, but she was still left with a rather large sum.

Now she could return to Septimus. She'd been anxious to go farther north. She enjoyed the cold, dead, freezing isolation that kept most people at bay. Nazir warned her that going into that frozen wasteland would be gambling with her life, but when she wanted to do something, she did it. He should've known better.

She and Shadowmere once again made great time across the frozen plains. She left him in Winterhold and continued the journey on her own. She did not stop for a bottle of mead or any roasted pheasant. She didn't feel very hungry. She never felt very hungry.

She opened the door to Septimus' hideout cautiously and called out for him. "Septimus?" she took careful steps as she descended toward the frozen pit in which he lived. "Are you still here?"

"Dig, Dwemer, in the beyond," she heard him shuffling below. "I'll know your last unknown and rise to your depths." He spotted her coming down towards the pit. "When the top level was built, no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex."

She dug around in her small, black bag and withdrew the block. She held it out to him. "Here, I've inscribed the lexicon."

"Give it, quickly!" he snapped, snatching it from her hands. She watched as he turned it over and over. "Extraordinary! I see it now. The sealing structure interlocks in the tiniest fractals."

"What does it mean?" she asked in a monotone, only slightly curious. She had found the old scholar interesting at first, but he was beginning to bore her, like many she had met before.

"Dwemer blood can loose the hooks, but none remain alive to bear it." She nodded for him to continue. "A panoply of their brethren could gather to form a facsimile. A trick. Something they didn't anticipate. No, not even them!"

He told her to gather the blood of the remaining races into a complicated collection device. She agreed to find all the blood samples that he listed, and turned to leave.

She was met with a mass of darkness.

She looked back at Septimus; he clearly didn't see what she was seeing. In front of her was an impossibly black force that engulfed her entirely. It made her feel weak. It made her vision falter, slightly. It had a hold on her that she didn't understand. It wasn't usual for something to bother her, but this mass was extremely unsettling.

"Hello, Still-Born," it croaked. Its voice shook the walls of the cave. Sif glanced back at Septimus; she was finding it hard to believe that he wasn't seeing this.

"Who are you?" Sif turned back to the mass, which was now forming into a large orb. "How do you know my name?"

The orb seemed to resonate with deep laughter. "Ah, you don't remember?" It chuckled again before going on. "Surprising. After all I did for you."

Sif was starting to get mildly annoyed. She didn't like it when anyone dodged her questions. Usually, she could just make eye contact with whomever she was questioning and they would spill their darkest secrets, but this _thing_ didn't have any eyes. Or a face.

"What should I remember, then?" she asked, placing her hand on the hilt of her dagger. She felt little wisps brushing up against her face, like dark, gentle fingers.

"No need to get anxious, little Dragonborn," it boomed, growing in size and engulfing her completely. She couldn't see a thing, for a moment, but then it all became clear.

Before her, she saw two people. One was obviously a Nord; he had straw-colored hair that was sheared off just above his shoulders, his skin was red from the heat of the sun, and he was dressed in the simple garb of a common worker or farmer. The other was an Imperial. She was more petite than her Nord companion, but she too was dressed in common garb. Both of them had daggers on their belts.

They were seated at a table in what appeared to be a modest hut. The woman's face was red with sorrow; she had been crying. The man was silent.

"They're going to call me Cold-Womb now," she sobbed, putting her head in her hands and shaking it. "They're all going to think that I am cursed!"

The man put his hands over hers and shook his head. "No, Isa. They will not call you that. You are my wife, and they will know you as such."

"Gods damn them!" she sobbed, squeezing fistfuls of hair in her hands. She looked up at the Nord with tear-filled eyes. "I never should have left Cyrodiil."

He shoved his chair backward and stood up, going to the window. He was looking at something that Sif couldn't see.

"You're being too hard on yourself, Isa," he said, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Don't I, Hodarr?" Isa said, bringing a hand down on the table. She looked back at him as he looked over to her. Their eyes met.

"It's not uncommon to lose your first child," he said, going to her. He took her hand. "We will have another, and she will be breathing."

There was a flash and Sif was suddenly staring at the black mass, when she came to a realization.

"Those were my parents," she said, out loud. "Weren't they?"

"Very good," the deep response came. "Do you know who I am, little Still-Born?" She shook her head; it seemed more familiar to her now, but she still couldn't place a name. She didn't have time to think when the mass spoke again. "I am Hermaeus Mora, Keeper of Knowledge."

Mora. Mora! Nocturnal's remark came back to Sif in a rush of memories. She knew that this was the Mora she'd been searching for. It knew her parents; it knew them before she did. It must've known _something_ about her.

"Was I really stillborn?" she found herself asking. She suddenly wished that she held her tongue. This thing was obviously a Daedra; it wouldn't give up valuable information for nothing, she knew.

"Agree to help _relieve_ Septimus of his burden, and I will give you an answer," it boomed. She looked back to Septimus. "Yes, Dragonborn. He has been a faithful servant, but his time has come. You would do well to take his place."

"You'll tell me everything, if I help him?" she asked. She was in no position to be bargaining with Mora, but she really had no other option.

"I keep to my word." She hesitated for a moment after its response.

"Alright," she nodded. The mass suddenly disappeared, and a weight was lifted from Sif's shoulders. If she could just help Septimus find the proper blood samples, Mora would answer her questions. She left his little hovel and carefully made her way across the frozen patches of ice toward the mainland, where Shadowmere had been waiting for her. She reared him around, towards the south, and began to ride through the snow.

She loved the snow. The damp, humid weather of Cyrodiil had always made her skin feel wet and clammy. She must've been a true Nord if she preferred the freezing weather of Skyrim to the favorable capital. It almost felt like home to her.

The snow was getting heavier and heavier with every mile south. Before, she could almost see the peaks of the College in the distance, but the path had directed her further west, and she lost sight of Winterhold in the blizzard. As she stopped to check her map, she realized that Dawnstar would probably be easier to reach, from the way that the storm was heading. She wouldn't have to head through the mountains, and it would be easier to rest in the Sanctuary.

Not that she needed rest. Never, once, had she felt the need for rest. She simply kept going, and thought nothing of it.

She and Shadowmere hardly lost any daylight as they travelled past the boundaries of Dawnstar. The snow had lightened up immensely, and the marshed were beginning to pull at Shadowmere's hooves. Lucky for Sif, Shadowmere never seemed to get tired either.

As the sun set behind the mountains to the west, Sif was climbing those very mountains. She had let Shadowmere go after they passed through Hjaalmarch; he knew when he was needed. She had no purpose in bringing him all the way to Solitude. If her shrouded garb didn't bring enough attention to her, Shadowmere would definitely do the job.

"It's about time you returned," Rikke reprimanded her, when she entered Castle Dour. She said nothing, she only wondered what it would feel like when she could finally cut the huge woman down. Tullius gave her a sullen look from the map table.

"Ulfric's troops have already moved into Markarth. What has it been? A week?" he looked at Sif and narrowed his eyes. "Thanks to you, Dragonborn, we have lost one of the most important holds in Skyrim. To the rebels."

She felt no guilt as both Tullius and Rikke stared her down. She shrugged, and replied rather simply. "It had to be done. We would've never reached a compromise if Jarl Ulfric didn't get what he wanted from the start."

Both of them were silent for a moment, before Rikke spoke.

"We've gotten word that Ulfric's right-hand, Galmar Stone-Fist, has located what he believes to be the final resting place of the Jagged Crown. And we're going to make sure that he doesn't get his hands on it."

"If it even exists," Tullius added, from his stance across the table. Sif's eyes lingered on his for a moment before training back on the Legate.

"It does exist," Rikke argued, looking back at him.

"We need it to legitimize Elisif's claim to the throne. When the Moot meets, the jarls _will_ see things her way," Rikke continued, nodding to Tullius. When she looked back at Sif, she almost recoiled. Sif could see apprehension in her eyes, just like everyone else. "The rest of the men are assembling outside of Korvanjund. I'll meet you there."

Sif turned, prepared to leave Castle Dour. She was anxious to leave Solitude far behind her; she hated the Imperials, she hated their flags and their buildings. She hated their armor.

"Soldier, wait," Rikke called. Sif stopped and turned. She almost got some sick pleasure from looking into others' eyes to find their fear. Rikke's was plain. Sif drank it in.

"Perhaps you should change into your armor," Rikke almost stuttered, placing her hand on the hilt of her sword. "It makes the men feel better to know that they have a comrade at their side, instead of some… Assassin."

No, Sif thought. They won't see my face until I'm standing over them with my sword in my hand.

"I'm not an assassin," Sif replied. She knew that Rikke felt the sudden chill in the air. She almost enjoyed it.

Sif Still-Born left the shadow of Castle Dour to find the Jagged Crown. She would finally be setting her plan into motion.


	6. Chapter 6

Weeks after Ulfric had returned from High Hrothgar with Galmar, the Stormcloaks had evenly spread across the southwest. Markarth and the Reach were theirs for the taking. Of course, they had to withdraw their troops from Dawnstar and Winterhold, but they could be easily retaken in a matter of months. Perhaps even weeks.

Things were looking well for Ulfric. It was all thanks to the Dragonborn. He could've taken the territory on his own, sure, but that didn't matter. It was his, now.

His thoughts went back to the Dragonborn. He had come to terms with the fact that she was a woman. He had plenty of loyal female warriors on his side that fought just as well as the men did. What he couldn't understand was her breeding. A half-blood, posing as the ancient Nordic hero of legend?

She wasn't _posing_, Ulfric reminded himself. The Greybeards called her to High Hrothgar. They already recognized her as the true Dragonborn. And if she had seen Alduin, and lived to tell the tale…

Ulfric had to put it from his mind. Now, the Dragonborn was the least of his concerns. Only days ago, Galmar had left Windhelm with a host of troops. They were going to find the Jagged Crown in some bleeding ruin, near Whiterun hold. Ulfric had wanted to join Galmar, for the sake of motivating the men, but Galmar had talked him out of it.

He was glad that he had allowed himself to be persuaded. His other generals still needed orders, if they were to begin preparations to retake the Pale. He had only been hosting Jarl Skald for about a fortnight, and he was already growing tired of the old man's constant demands.

Skald was _his_ guest, staying in _his_ palace. Why did it feel like it was the other way around?

Ulfric sighed, stretching his legs. Despite all that he had to deal with during his days, he always enjoyed the nightly comforts of his own bed and the nights he spent, buried beneath warm furs, alongside a low flame. For the past few nights, however, his sleep hadn't been as restful as he wished it to be.

Damn this war, he thought to himself, as he rose from his bed and pulled his cuirass over his underclothes. It's with me always.

He heard a brief knock at his door, followed by the entrance of a palace guard.

"My lord. Galmar has returned. He is waiting in the war room."

Ah, the Jagged Crown. He nodded to the guard and thanked him. He pulled on his coat of dark furs, followed by his thick trousers and his leather boots. Before he left, he clipped his axe-belt around his waist. He wouldn't allow his people to see him as anything less than he was; the Jarl of Windhelm, and the leader of the Stormcloaks.

He was glad to see his friend again, but there weren't good tidings. Galmar had lost the Jagged Crown to the Imperials.

"We almost had it, Ulfric! It barely escaped our clutches," Galmar growled, bringing his fists down on the map table. Several of the flag pieces that were mounted on the map fell over, and he sighed with frustration as he began to pick them up.

"It is of no consequence," Ulfric said, shaking his head and gesturing towards the main hall. "Come. Let us share a meal and you may tell me of your travels."

The two sat at the dining table in the main hall. One of the cooks brought out a plate of steaming beef, with stewed carrots and fresh bread. Galmar tore into the beef as he began to speak.

"It was the strangest thing," he said, with a mouth full of food. He chased it with a gulp of ale from a nearby tankard. "We set up an ambush because we knew they were coming, but they ended up losing more men than we did." He took a bite from the bread; it smelled deliciously sour. "The Dragonborn was with them."

Ulfric found his interest suddenly peaked. He took a few cuts of meat for himself and casually began to eat. "The Dragonborn?" He knew that she was on Tullius' side, but if she really was with the Imperials... That meant she would never be inclined to join Ulfric's cause. The Stormcloaks would suffer greatly with the Dragonborn fighting against them.

"I'm getting to that," Galmar continued, between mouthfuls. "I saw her just for a moment. She was still wearing those clothes." Ulfric remembered the shadowed garments of the Brotherhood. "But she didn't fight. In fact, the few soldiers that recall seeing her on the inside say that she avoided fighting at all. According to them, she didn't kill anyone."

"An assassin went into Korvanjund with Imperial inclinations and didn't make any attempts on our mens' lives?" Ulfric scoffed. He forked a few carrots into his mouth. They tasted too salty. "I find that very hard to believe."

"Wait, just wait," Galmar growled, his short temper beginning to show. "One of our men reported that she went in to take the Crown from the main chamber with a host of Imperial guards." He looked up from his plate, straight into Ulfric's eyes. "Not one of them came out alive."

Ulfric swallowed. What could this mean? He thought. She killed her own comrades? What kind of noble, heroic Dragonborn are we dealing with, here?

He cleared his throat to speak, and his heart sped up. "She killed them all? Her own companions?"

Galmar shrugged. The cook brought out a tray of assorted berries and pastries, and Galmar made his choices with deft fingers.

"I have the man that witnessed it," he said, taking a bite of one of his carefully selected tarts. "He's here, in the city, with the rest of the host. They're staying at Candlehearth Hall."

"I'd like to speak with them," Ulfric immediately replied. Galmar nodded in response.

"I thought you would. I'll send someone to fetch them."

The men arrived within the hour. Ulfric was seated on his throne when the group came before him. There was only twelve of them. They inclined their heads in respect of Jarl Ulfric.

"There are only twelve of you?" Ulfric asked. The one in the front shook his head. He looked familiar, but Ulfric couldn't quite place it.

"No, sir. The other hosts have returned to their holds. We are what's left of the Windhelm faction." Ulfric sighed. He had lost more men than necessary. Any life lost was more than necessary. All for the damned Crown.

"What is your name?" Ulfric asked, leaning forward to better hear the lad.

"Ralof, my lord."

Ralof! The boy from Helgen. Ulfric had searched for him for weeks after his initial return to Windhelm. He wanted to keep the promise he had made to himself; to prompt Ralof for his bravery. Ulfric stood and descended from his chair, firmly clasping Ralof's shoulder.

"My friend, we are equals here," he said, extending his welcome to the soldiers around Ralof. They all seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. "I had been searching for you, after Helgen. What brought you so far north from Riverwood?"

Ulfric knew that Ralof felt flattered by Ulfric's remembrance. "I happened to return to Windhelm just before Galmar called for aid in finding the crown," Ralof said. He gestured to his men. "A few of my friends here joined me on my way up north." Ulfric nodded to them with a stern expression.

"Galmar tells me that you saw the Dragonborn," Ulfric inquired. Ralof nodded. "Tell me exactly what you saw."

"Well, we saw her go to the back of the chamber, while we had our hands full with the Imperials," he said, as his company nodded in agreement. "She slipped past us, and I saw a few of our own take a swing at her, but she always kept them at arm's length. I don't think she killed any of ours. I managed to slip away and follow her. She had a host of about twenty men with her. I saw them figure out one of those puzzle doors." Ulfric nodded, indicating that he understood. "The door shut behind them before I could get in, but I heard a lot of swords clashing, and... I think I heard Shouting."

Ulfric swallowed again. So her Thu'um was true. "Go on."

"When the door finally opened, and I could get in, every one of her men was dead. That was at least fifteen bodies! But she was gone. The Crown, too."

Ulfric could see that Ralof was visibly shivering. He nodded once and turned to sit on his throne. He suddenly felt too tired to stand.

"Is that all you saw?" Ulfric asked, once he was settled. He couldn't get comfortable; he almost felt as if something cold and wet was wrapped around his neck, slowly squeezing...

"Yes. But there was something strange about the Dragonborn," Ralof said, looking down for a moment. "She looked almost familiar. Like I've seen her somewhere before."

"She looks familiar to all of us, my friend," Ulfric replied, shaking his head. "But it is no matter. Despite our loss, you and your host have done the Stormcloaks proud. Please, make use of my hall until you return to your homes." Their faces relaxed, and some of them were eyeing the long table, where remains of Galmar's meal still sat.

"And Ralof," Ulfric said, standing up and descending his throne once more. "In return for both your loyal service to the Stormcloaks and your bravery at Helgen, I would be honored to name you a captain among my men."

Ralof's face lit up. Before he could respond, Ulfric spoke again. "There's no need to thank me. Eat your fill and rest until you're ready to return to the Falkreath camp. There is still work to be done." Ralof nodded without another word.

The soldiers ate and drank. By the time Ulfric returned from his duties in the war room, they had retired upstairs. The day was growing darker outside, already. The Jarl once again settled into his throne, but the same discomfort plagued him.

So, the Dragonborn was as devious as they came. Sure, Ulfric didn't like the Imperials much, but he would never even think of leading them into a chamber with no escape, posing as their ally. Or their leader. He wondered just how far Skyrim had fallen into madness. The only hero they had to look to was a lowly assassin, a kinslayer. A turncloak.

Well, he thought. I'll just have to take this opportunity.

He knew that he could lead the people to freedom. To safety. More than this fickle Dragonborn could. He looked to Jorleif to distract himself from the chilling feeling.

"Has anyone petitioned the court today?" he asked, only slightly interested. He was sure that those Dunmer had something to complain about. They always did.

"Yes, my lord. There is a camp of bandits in the southern part of the hold, almost near Whiterun, that calls for your attention. They have been harassing a nearby farm."

His interest was hardly captured. "Who reported it?"

"Suvaris Atheron," Jorleif replied. Ulfric saw that his steward could predict his own response.

"A camp of bandits, you say. Harassing a Dunmer farm?"

"She did not mention who ran the farm, only that it was being harassed."

Ulfric scratched his beard, pretending to be thinking. Elves... Lying, filthy creatures. They imprisoned him, tortured him, and now they were attempting to control him. He would not have it in his hold.

"Shall I send a unit, Ulfric?" Jorleif asked, interrupting his musings. He sighed and shrugged.

"I suppose, if it gets worse. Until then, we should keep our men where they are needed." Jorleif nodded, understanding Ulfric's meaning. He wouldn't help the elves, not until they desperately needed it.

"That's hardly the response one would expect from a jarl." That voice, followed by the sudden chill. It almost sucked the air from Ulfric's lungs. There was only one place that voice could've come from. He looked up, and sure enough, he saw the Dragonborn. Her face was still covered, and she still seemed to be steeped in shadow, just as she was only weeks ago.

"Dragonborn." Ulfric could only say, nearly snarling. A sudden anger boiled in him. He had no sympathy or place in his hall for kinslayers. "You're surprisingly brave, to be setting foot in my hall."

He could see Galmar out of the corner of his eye, standing in the doorway to the war room. He must've felt the chill in the air.

"I didn't mean to intrude, but I thought I'd bring you this," she said, reaching into the knapsack strapped across her back and withdrawing what could only be the Jagged Crown. She held it up to Ulfric, and he leaned forward to get a better look. It was the Crown, of that he had no doubt. But why did she bring it here?

"Your loyalty to General Tullius must mean a great deal to you, if you've brought the Crown to me, instead," he growled with sarcasm. Her eyes remained fixed on him. He swallowed, feeling the weight of her unparalleled gaze. He spoke again, to ease himself. "Why do you bring it here?"

"Because it is yours." Her reply was simple, and left no room for response. When she spoke, it was almost as if everything she said was final. Just like it was at the negotiation in High Hrothgar.

"I do not understand," Ulfric said. He looked to Jorleif and Galmar, who both appeared ready to strike whenever necessary. "Perhaps it's best if we continue this discussion privately.

"Are you sure?" Galmar shot back. Always quick to respond, Ulfric remarked to himself. He gave Galmar a swift nod as Jorleif went back to the war room. Galmar narrowed his eyes at the Dragonborn, whose own eyes remained fixed on Ulfric, still.

Once they were alone, Ulfric spoke again. "You'd have me believe that an Imperial is bringing me the Crown out of free will? Is this some sort of trap?" He smirked at the idea of his cleverness.

"I am not an Imperial," she said in a firm voice. He stopped smirking. "I recovered the Crown, and I've brought it to you. If that is not an obvious statement of where my allegiances lie, then I do not know what else I can do to make it any clearer."

He growled. He didn't like his intelligence mocked. Not by this... Half-blood. He thought he saw a glimmer of satisfaction in her nearly yellow eyes.

"If you wished to join the Stormcloaks, why did you not do so before, instead of running off with Tullius?"

Her response was quick and concise. "I've learned that things come apart more easily from the inside."

"How can I be so sure that you won't do the same damage here?" he countered, feeling almost ready for a debate. He suddenly wanted to provoke this woman, to see her as something other than eerily calm.

"I gave you the Reach, I kept your hold on the Rift, I eliminated an entire host, and I brought you the Crown," she said, standing completely still as she spoke with a gentle cadence. "What more do you wish of me?"

Having the Dragonborn on his side was something that he wouldn't mind having; in fact, she could be the most deadly weapon in his employment. She openly admitted the slaughtering of her own host, but in his name? Did she not think it a crime? Did she not recognize killing as something wrong?

Just who was this woman?

"You mistake me for someone that accepts bribes, Dragonborn," Ulfric scoffed, doing his best to appear uninterested. "How do I know that I can trust you?"

She shrugged, nonchalant. "You'll trust me when you see fit. It is your choice. I cannot do anything to change it until you decide for yourself." He sighed in frustration. No honor, no morality, and no concept of allegiance? No feelings of loyalty?

"Your loyalty is with the Stormcloaks?" he asked, sitting up. He thought he heard a soft chuckle from under her cowl.

"If you wish it to be," she said.

"What do you wish?" he asked. She paused, and Ulfric fancied for a moment that he had caught her off guard with such a deeply personal question. After a moment of silence, she spoke again.

"Is there anything else you need, my jarl?" she asked, preparing to leave. Of course there was more he needed! She hadn't answered any of his questions. Was she going to join his ranks as a soldier? Was she going to remain in Windhelm? He had too many questions to ask, but only one thing came to mind.

"Show me your face," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He needed to put a face to the voice, the chill. She appeared to hesitate again, and he could hear her audibly sigh, but his heart thudded in his head as she reached up and pulled at the cowl on her head.

First came the luminously pale skin, like refined, gleaming moonstone. A straight nose and high, think cheeks. Full lips relaxed into a dissatisfied smirk. He saw the scar running through her right eye, and the scar that went through the right side of her mouth. Neither of the scars were deep, or red. They looked like scratches.

Her hair was as black as he had ever seen it. It fell thick around her shoulders. Some of it had been put into braids. It couldn't have been much longer than Ulfric's.

Most notable were her eyes, with their pale yellow sheen. They almost glowed. They looked deeply set, or perhaps the surrounding shadow was due to a lack of sleep? Or an overabundance of eye shadow? Ulfric doubted it was due to any paint or make-up; she didn't seem the frivolous sort. She was beautiful, but her beauty was inhibited by the chill of death that seemed to cloak her in shadow.

It was the woman from Helgen!

Memories of the dragon attack began flooding back; she was with Ralof! She and Ulfric had shared a cart, as they both headed to the block. He remembered that they tried to execute her for merely crossing the border.

"You were in Helgen," Ulfric said, voicing his thoughts. "That's why you're coming to me. You want revenge." Her silence confirmed it. He didn't know whether to feel blessed or used; this woman would fight for him no matter what. He knew it, but... Only to seek revenge?

But then again, they all sought revenge, in one form or another.

"Your name?" he asked. Her response came without hesitation.

"Sif Still-Born."

So Galmar had been right the whole time. The Still-Born girl was real, and she was here, in Skyrim. She was the Dragonborn. And she was here, to join his ranks and exact her revenge. Ulfric saw it in her eyes; the same fire that burned in his. Hers didn't burn quite as brightly, though. He wondered why that was.

"Galmar will see to it that you're provided with new armor," Ulfric said, standing and descending from his throne. "After you've changed and found a place for your things, you'll go to the camp in Falkreath."

She nodded and turned away. He watched her disappear into the shadows. The Dragonborn was now on his side, yet all he felt was apprehension.


	7. Chapter 7

Sif had done what she had wanted to do. Not only did she utterly betray General Tullius and Legate Rikke, she also managed to wipe out an entire host of Imperial troops in the process. If that didn't set them back, she didn't know what else could've.

When she brought Jarl Ulfric his damned Crown, she saw the conflict in his eyes. She could almost feel the distrust radiating from him, but he accepted her, nonetheless. She wouldn't be a soldier, she knew that, but she would do everything she could to cripple the Legion. She would even help those Stormcloaks get them out of Skyrim. She wanted Tullius, the Empire, and the Thalmor to suffer the most. If joining Jarl Ulfric's cause was the way to make them pay for their false judgement, she would join it a thousand times.

The man called Galmar Stone-Fist had hatred in his eyes when he handed her the armor, along with a pair of boots and gauntlets. She supposed that in order to fight with them, she had to dress like them. She wasn't exactly looking forward to being rid of her shrouded gear, but she had no choice. She returned to Dawnstar and hid it away in the Sanctuary, briefly speaking to Nazir before riding back to Eastmarch. She even caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror before she left; she looked like a walking corpse.

Jarl Ulfric immediately summoned her to the Palace of Kings as soon as she arrived at Candlehearth Hall. News must travel quickly in this city, she thought, as she left her temporary lodgings for the Palace.

She knew that by helping the Stormcloaks with their little battles, she would probably cross paths with the remaining races whose blood she needed to collect. She had already gotten a sample of Orsimer blood from a bandit thug that had made the mistake of attacking her on the open road, and she had obtained a Falmer sample from a Dwemer ruin she was forced to detour through on her way across the mountains. She shuddered at the thought. She hated all the machinery; it was so loud, and it _reeked_.

Only three more samples, and she could return to Septimus. Which meant she could see Mora again. If she helped him open the Dwemer box, in return, he would have no choice but to disclose what he knew about her parents. And if he didn't… Sif would think of something.

She entered the Palace of Kings, but didn't see the jarl on his throne. She went through the hall to the war room, where he was standing over the map table. Galmar Stone-Fist was nowhere in sight. As soon as she entered the room, he looked up. She saw his pupils contract.

"You summoned me?" she said in a low voice, after neither of them spoke for a moment. Jarl Ulfric looked to the table and nodded, placing a finger on Falkreath.

"Like I said before, you're going to the camp in Falkreath," he said. She turned to leave, but he spoke again. "I want you to answer a few questions first, though." She sighed to herself. Everyone always had questions, about something.

"Questions?" she turned and looked at him again. He hadn't looked away. She never backed down from anything, and Ulfric Stormcloak did not intimidate her in the least.

"Are you living, here?" he asked, clearing his throat. "In Eastmarch?" She wanted to huff with frustration. What was he gaining by asking such a trivial question?

"I am not." Silence, again. She sensed that he was thinking. "You do know of the farm," he began, choosing his words very carefully. She raised an eyebrow.

"If you are who you say you are. Sif…"

"Still-Born." She filled in where he could not. He gave an affirmative nod. She spoke. "What farm are you talking about?"

"The farm where you were born. It is here, in Eastmarch," he said, spitting out the words as if they had a contemptible taste. She remembered what Urag had said, about the farm from the story. He did say that it could've been in Eastmarch, but she never thought to ask.

"You knew the story was true, didn't you?" Sif asked, inspired by the fact that Jarl Ulfric could've spared her a lot of searching if he had just told her in Helgen, in the beginning.

"It happened when my father was the Jarl of Windhelm. He never believed it because he never saw the chi- well, he never saw you in person, but your parents did own a farm in the west," he said, looking at the map to refresh his memory. He placed yet another finger on a spot at the base of the mountains to the south, near the river. "If my memory serves me correctly, it should be located there still."

"The legend says it was burnt to the ground," Sif said, moving over to the table and looking at where he was pointing. Her eyes locked on to his in an unbreakable gaze. She raised an eyebrow, suggesting that she was asking a question.

"I believe that is only gossip," Ulfric said, straightening up nonetheless. "But you are needed at the Falkreath camp. You should go. Find Galmar and receive your orders from him." He's right, Sif thought. I need to gather the rest of the blood. That farm isn't going anywhere, and Mora won't wait forever.

Sif followed Ulfric's orders, as she had followed many other orders before his. That's all she seemed to be good at, but at least she felt like she was getting something meaningful out of it. What was meaningful to her? She wasn't like the others; she didn't feel tired after their frequent meetings with Imperial troops. Her mouth didn't water when she saw meat turning over a fire. She never had the desire for another man, or a drink. Hunger had never burned like a fire in her belly.

With Sif at their side, the Stormcloaks liberated Falkreath by conquering Fort Neugrad. Immediately afterward, they took Hjaalmarch by way of Morthal and Fort Snowhawk. Sif killed as efficiently as she could. She tried to be inspired by their victories across Skyrim, but it was not glory that she was after.

She came across many dead Dunmer in her battles, along with a few Bosmer that somehow got into the mix. She was traveling back to Windhelm on her own, with Shadowmere, when she finally found the last Mer she was looking for. A group of Thalmor soldiers, clad in High Elven armor, crossed her path as she was heading north. They were escorting a prisoner that looked to be a Nord, with a head of pale, white hair. He looked as if he had been tortured.

In that moment, Sif knew she had two choices; she could kill the Thalmor and free their prisoner, or kill all of them, including the prisoner. She decided on the latter. She pulled up sharply on Shadowmere's reins and made a rapid descent as he reared up and bolted forward, directly through the wall of soldiers surrounding the prisoner. Both Sif and the prisoner seized the opportunity to form up, back to back. She sliced the ropes binding his hands and passed him a dagger, drawing her own sword in the process.

It was a sword that Jarl Ulfric had given to her, after they had taken Falkreath hold. It was nothing special, but it was made of blown glass. He claimed it had come from his personal armory, but she figured he took it from some Imperial that had been unfortunate enough to cross his or Galmar Stone-Fist's path.

Sif and the prisoner made quick work of the Thalmor soldiers, despite their use of magic. Sif's magic was older, and it ran deeper than anything else in existence. The prisoner recognized her as soon as she Shouted, as he would've, but neither of them stopped fighting until all of the soldiers were dead. When they were done, and Sif had collected the sample she needed from a dead Altmer with a pinched face, she turned to continue directly northward.

Jarl Ulfric's summons would have to wait. Mora was more important to her, now.

"Wait, Dragonborn!" She cursed to herself as she stopped in her tracks. She couldn't get away from the prisoner in time. Damn these mortals and their sentiments, she thought, as she turned to face him. In the time it took for her to collect a blood sample, he had salvaged the usable gear from the dead soldiers. He was now clad in a variety of different plates and armors, obviously preparing for a long journey.

"You saved my life," he said, stepping forward. Sif did not move. He persisted. "I am in your debt."

"You owe me nothing." Sif's voice was flat, and definitive, as it always had been. She suddenly wished that she was back in her room at the Sanctuary, where there was nothing near her but the freezing cold and the piercing silence. Despite her finality, the man spoke again.

"My name is Thorald, of clan Gray-Mane," he said, looking as if he would reach forward to clasp her hand in a customary Nordic greeting, but thought better of it. "I know that only the Dragonborn can Shout, but I have yet to know your name, friend."

He must've been kept prisoner for a long time, Sif thought to herself. She knew that her name was in every corner of Skyrim. She blamed Jarl Ulfric for that.

"I am Sif Still-Born," she responded in an even tone. She waited for a reaction, and she got one. Even if it was the slightest glint of suspicion in his eyes, it was still there, and she saw it. She saw everything. She had the eyes of a dov. Paarthurnax was always quick to remind her of that during their meditations.

"So it is you," Thorald mumbled, more to himself than to her. She said nothing, only waited. After a moment of contemplative silence, he nodded and spoke. "I must thank you for freeing me. Those elves had me kidnapped, and they took me north to some fortress of theirs." Sif watched the man's mouth as it formed his irrelevant words. "They questioned me for days, about the Stormcloaks, about Ulfric… They were taking me somewhere else because I wouldn't tell them anything." He noticed her cuirass and nodded with a slight smile. "I don't give up my comrades so easily."

"You don't need to thank me," Sif said, her eyes never wavering from his. He shuffled his feet in the uncomfortable stillness that followed.

"My family will surely thank you," he continued, after a moment. "Do you know them? Clan Gray-Mane. We hail from Whiterun hold."

Whiterun. Dragonsreach. Jorrvaskr. Memories came back to Sif in a flash. She needed to get to Mora. She had no time to spare for Thorald.

"I know none by that name," she replied, sheathing her sword. She had forgotten that she was still holding it. "I'm afraid I must be off. If you're looking for Jarl Ulfric, Windhelm is just east of here." She took a heel of bread and a wedge of cheese from the bag at her side and handed them to the former prisoner. She would have no need of them. Before he could speak again, she had called Shadowmere and began her ride to the far north.

They rode hard. By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, Sif had dismounted Shadowmere and was carefully making her way across the frozen northern sea. Every now and again, her feet would slip off the ice and dip into the water, but she didn't feel it. When she finally found the ladder into Septimus' cave, her feet were soaked.

"Septimus?" she called, as she descended into the frozen pit. His head appeared from around the corner. He was busying himself at an alchemy lab. Sif couldn't remember if that was there before. "I've brought all the blood you require." Sif watched as he set down a batch of fire salts and wiped his hands on his robe, taking the essence extractor from her outstretched hand. He held it to the light and inspected it.

"I can almost… Hear them. I feel their life energy. Come, I will make the mixture," he said, walking to the large Dwemer box that seemed to take up more space in the room than it had before. She watched him take the extractor and insert it into a slot in the box. The spheres in the middle suddenly began to rotate until they were lined up, as a concave path opened towards the middle interior of the box. It was bigger than it looked.

"Come! Quickly!" Septimus said, running down the long circular hallway with excitement. Sif followed him. She heard him speak before she could reach him.

"What is this… it's… it's just a book?! The world beyond burns in my mind. It's marvelous…" As she came into the interior chamber, Septimus dissolved into a cloud of ash. Sif drew back, startled, and Mora's voice boomed from the walls of the chamber.

"Take the book," it commanded. Sif felt repulsion from the thing sitting on the pedestal, that appeared to be made of skin… But if she wanted Mora to talk, she figured it was better to do as he said. She reached out and picked it up. The slimy skin felt disgusting against the tips of her exposed fingers.

"Come, my champion…" Mora whispered, and she felt his wretched darkness surround her again. When she opened her eyes, she was speaking into the same abyss she had seen only weeks before. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Was she afraid? Did she even know the meaning of fear?

"I found your book," she said, thrusting it towards the abyss with both hands. She wanted to be rid of it, but her fingers felt like they were locked around it. "I helped Septimus. I helped you."

"That, you did," Mora responded. "And I do keep to my word. Very well, Dovahkiin. Tell me what you wish to know."

Sif began with the first thing that came to her mind. "You showed me my parents. Was I truly born dead?"

"Yes." The reply had come almost immediately. She swallowed again. She felt her hands growing hot around the book.

"How am I alive, then?" she persisted. There was a bit of hesitation.

"I allowed you to be resurrected." Allowed her? What did it mean?

"Explain that," she said, her words echoing her thoughts. She felt a sudden anxiety, as if she knew he was going to tell her something that would change everything. She heard an audible sigh from Mora.

"The details of death are so… Complicated, to one who doesn't know the system. I will do my best to enlighten you," it said. "Every so often, when a soul is released from its concrete form, it is claimed by one of us Daedra. I was quick to claim yours, as you came from your mother's womb." She closed her eyes; that resonated with her, somehow…

"However, I claimed your soul too early. You were destined to be Dovahkiin from birth, and Akatosh demanded that I return it to your body. But newborn souls are so… Valuable, to us lucky enough to claim them."

"But you returned it," Sif stated, as more of a fact than a question. A chuckle came from Mora.

"So hasty," it mumbled, before continuing. "I was reluctant to revive you, but Akatosh made a promise to me. As soon as your duty as Dovahkiin was fulfilled, I could once more claim your soul in Oblivion. I restored you for the sake of your fate."

Her fate as Dovahkiin went as far as defeating Alduin. She knew it, and she knew what Mora would say next.

"As soon as your duty is done, and Alduin is defeated, your body will die, and your soul will come to me in Oblivion."

She felt dry. She no longer felt the heat in her hands, or her face. She felt wispy and transparent.

"Is that all you wish to know?" Mora boomed, after Sif didn't speak again for a few minutes.

She had a cloud of fog behind her eyes, but she didn't forget the other questions she had for him. She shook the cloud away and swallowed the third lump in her throat, preparing herself for anything else Mora could tell her.

"The Dragonborn has the soul of a dragon," she stated, organizing her thoughts as she spoke. She heard a sound of acknowledgement from the abyss. "Paarthurnax told me that mine was different."

"Yours is different because it dominates you," Mora stated, matter-of-factly. "Akatosh told me to revive you, but he never said how. I discarded your human soul in exchange for the soul of the dragon that is required for your fated duties."

She was silent again, but Mora didn't give her any time to absorb the information before he spoke again.

"Have you never noticed your resistance? The absence of hunger, thirst, and fatigue? Have you never noticed your lack of sympathy and trivial mortal emotion?" Mora's voice boomed, echoing in her head, echoing in the pit of her stomach. "You speak to dragons without the need to learn their tongue. I've seen you, Still-Born. You kill without hesitation, and you fear nothing." She swallowed another lump. "You are a dragon."

Sif felt her blood grow hot, she felt the searing in her palms and the tips of her fingers flexed as she dropped the book at her feet. Mora disappeared in a blur of blackness, and she was left alone with her thoughts. She forgot the Stormcloaks, she forgot Jarl Ulfric, she forgot Whiterun and Jorrvaskr; she even forgot Alduin.

Alone, in the pit of a frozen wasteland, sat the Dragon Incarnate, and she had never felt more alive.


End file.
